


Letters from Sussex - The Appendices

by sussexbound (SamanthaLenore)



Series: Letters from Sussex [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Aborted Blow Jobs, Additional Tags Added in the Future as Needed, Aftercare, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bathing/Washing, Co-Bathing, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Massage, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Penetrative Sex, Rimming, Soft Dom John, Sub Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-09
Updated: 2016-05-03
Packaged: 2018-04-30 18:05:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 26,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5173910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SamanthaLenore/pseuds/sussexbound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Appendices to my epistolary fic "Letters from Sussex".</p><p>These appendices correspond to certain chapters in my epistolary fic, "Letters from Sussex" (LfS).  The LfS Chapter will be referred to in the appendix title, and a link to the corresponding LfS chapter will also be provided in the beginning author notes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Appendix ? - Chpt 134 + 135

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place after [Chapter 134](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4147626/chapters/11844107) of Letters from Sussex.

It shouldn’t be this hard.  Why is it this hard?

Gladstone stares up at John from the hearth, tail thumping against the rug, and sniffs in agitation.  He can always sense high emotion coming.  It’s a bloody gift, John thinks.  But he doesn’t need the comfort of a wet nose, and and silky ears, at the moment.  He needs space, air.  He wants to run, he suddenly realises, to get out of the cottage and just go.  But he’s promised himself to stop doing that, to start running to, rather than away from.  It’s not been easy.

He stares down at the letter in his hand.  It’s rumpled, and slightly damp from the sweat of his palms, and he wonders just how long he has been sitting here, staring blankly, the paper clutched tight in his fist.  His leg aches.  He feels tired.  His eyes burn with the effort of keeping tears he doesn’t understand at bay.

Getting to his feet, he rubs out the pain in his thigh, and then makes his way into the kitchen.  Gladstone follows close at his heel.  He should make breakfast.  He should make sure Sherlock eats, bathes, takes his medications.  It soothes and calms him, a little, just thinking about the mundane things, the day’s little necessities.  

That is what he is, that is what he knows to do, longs to do, not…  He stares down at the rumpled piece of paper in his hand, and then walks over and lays it on the kitchen table by Sherlock’s seat, smooths it out the best he can.  _Not that._

It’s raining outside.  John stares out the small window over the sink at the leafless, dripping branches, the brown, sodden lawn, the crows picking about at the periphery of the fence.  It’s the perfect day for staying inside.  There is nothing else to do on a day like this, but stay inside.  It’s inevitable, then.  He might as well face things straight off, get this all out of the way.

Steeling himself, he takes a deep breath, and strides back over to the table, snatching up the letter before ordering Gladstone to his spot by the hearth, and returning to the bedroom.

The room is cold and grey, and Sherlock is sprawled out on the mattress, a ridiculous tangle of limbs and sheets, face mashed into the pillow, hair askew and lips relaxed into a perfect bow.  John feels a surge of fondness so strong it aches.  Sometimes when he wakes in the mornings now, and lays watching the even rise and fall of Sherlock’s breathing, all he can see is him only a few weeks prior—pale, diminished, red-rimmed eyes, and blood-stained lips, barely clinging to life by a thread.  

So many miracles…  So many second chances…  And yet, here they are.  Sometimes John wishes he could wrap him up tight, and never let another dark thing touch him for as long as they both shall live.  It’s a pipe dream.  He knows that.  The life they’ve chosen has it’s dangers, and neither of them have ever wanted it any other way.  But still…

John shivers.  Right.  Light a fire, and then…  Well, he’ll deal with ‘ _then_ ’ when he gets there.  One thing at a time.

Despite his best efforts at silence, the room’s only other occupant is blinking at him sleepily by the time he finally gets the flames to take, and turns around.  Sherlock smiles, and then stretches fully before pulling the blankets back under his nose.

“It’s raining.  Not much else to do but have a lie-in, I thought.”

But, Sherlock just burrows down more deeply beneath the covers without a word.  The only thing left visible now, is a mop of unruly curls.

John bites back a smile.  “You mind if I get back in there?”

Sherlock’s head pops back into view, brow furrowed.  “Of course not.  Don’t be ridiculous.”  He yawns.  “Take your clothes off though.  I hate those pyjamas you’re wearing.  They itch.”  There’s almost a bit of a pout behind the demand, and John shakes his head, but complies anyway.  Clearly, it’s going to be one of _those_ days…

Sherlock is all over him the minute he crawls back beneath the covers, but he’s warm, and smells good, even if his breath is slightly stale with sleep, so John allows it.  After he’s settled again, head tucked up beneath John’s armpit, one leg draped inelegantly over both of John’s thighs, he lets out a small huff.  “What’s that paper you brought.”

John tilts his head down and lets out a small chuckle.  “Well, you don’t miss a thing, do you?”

“It’s my job to notice things,” Sherlock mouths against his ribs.

“A letter.”

“Obviously.”

John sighs.  “Well if you knew that, why bother to ask?”

“What’s it about?”

“Us.”

“What about us?”

John huffs.  “Why don’t you just read it.”

An arm snakes across John’s waist and pulls him a little closer.  “Because,” Sherlock addresses his armpit.  “I want you to tell me.”

“I wrote it so I wouldn’t have to tell you.”

“But you brought it in here, so you wanted to talk about it.”

John presses his lips together tightly, and swallows.  He doesn’t know what to say.  He didn’t even know what to say in the damn letter, for Christ’s sake!

Sherlock tilts his chin up, face expertly schooled into the expression of innocent choir boy.  “What?”

John scowls.  “It’s not an easy thing to talk about.”

“Oh.”  Pulling back a little, Sherlock props himself up on one arm.  “Why not?”

“It just isn’t!” John snaps, and then immediately regrets it.  He rubs a hand wearily across his eyes.  “Sorry.  Sorry, I just—I started out meaning to write one thing, and it sort of got wildly away from me, and now…”

Sherlock’s eyes soften.  He holds out a hand.  “I’ll read it.  Let me read it.”

John takes a deep breath and holds it for a beat, before letting it all out again in a rush.  He shakes his head against the pillow.  “I’m frustrated.  I want to be what you need, but…”

“John…”  Sherlock lays back down, but pushes himself up a little so his face is only inches from John’s on the pillow.  “You are what I need.  You’re precisely what I need.  That’s what I was trying to say in that letter.  I…”

“The things you said you needed in that letter were not me, Sherlock.  They’re—they’re some sort of fantasy, and I can’t be that!”  John’s voice breaks, and he clamps his jaw shut, tightly, in an attempt to control the unexpected wash of emotion.  Sherlock is blessedly quiet.  “I can’t.  I can’t do that.  I don’t want to hurt you, and I’m afraid that if we start down that road, then…”

“John…”  John tilts his head to the side, and Sherlock smiles gently, in return.  “I never once said that I wanted _that_.”

“Yeah, you did.”

Sherlock shakes his head.  “I didn’t.  This is what I’m talking about, John.  Things are all—jumbled up in here.”  Sherlock reaches out and cards his long fingers once through John’s hair, before dropping his arm back down around his waist and pulling him close.  “You’re equating my wanting your strength, your competence, your authority, with roughness, and pain, and maybe even abuse.  Those things don’t always go hand-in-hand.  You, of all people, should know that.  You’re a soldier.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?” John mutters.

“Everything.  You know how to give orders, and to take them.  You know the assurance, the security in that.”

“Is there a point to this?”  It’s snappish and rude, but Sherlock seems wholly unaffected.

“Why did you join the army?”  he asks, mildly.

“What?”

“Why did you join the army?” Sherlock insists.

“I wanted out.  I wanted to get away.  And they’d help pay for my schooling.”

Sherlock just stares.

“What?”

“Really, John…”

John just shakes his head.  “I—I don’t know what sort of answer you’re looking for here.  Why are we talking about my time in the army?  I thought we were talking about sex.”

Sherlock sighs, and rolls his eyes.

John scowls.

“Did you enjoy your time in the army?”

“Yeah.  Sure.  You know I did.  It was—I still miss it sometimes, to be honest.”

“Why?”

“The camaraderie, the security, the assurance of always knowing what’s expected.  It was very—comforting.”  Sherlock cocks a brow, and John frowns back.  “You’re making the face.  What?”

“What did you just say?”

“I said to stop making the goddamned face.”

Sherlock smirks.  “Before that.”

John wracks his brain.  “I—I said I enjoyed the security and assurance of always knowing what was expected.”

“Because…?”

“Because it’s comforting.  It—it makes you feel safe, somehow.  You know exactly what’s expected, and as long as you follow orders and do it well, you know you’re meeting the mark, you’re pleasing the folks that matter.”

“Exactly.”

John shakes his head.  “Exactly what?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes again and lets out a long-suffering sigh.  “That’s what I’m saying I need from you, John.  Something you’re already accustomed to giving.  You were a captain, for heaven’s sake.  I’m sure you doled out orders on a daily basis.”

“Well, I was an army doctor with the rank of captain, it wasn’t quite like…”

Sherlock waves a hand impatiently, cutting him off.  “The point is, John.  You know how to give orders.  You’re good at it.”

John smiles in bemusement.  “How would you know that?”

Sherlock clamps his mouth shut, and squirms a little.  “Because I’ve seen you do it,” he finally manages.

John sits back a little taking in the sudden change in demeanour, the flush that is undeniably spreading across Sherlock’s chest, and travelling up his neck even as they speak.  “When?” he challenges.

Sherlock’s face is now a lovely shade of pink, and John lets out a soft chuckle.  “Oh, my God…”

“What?”  Sherlock challenges, his face only turning all the redder.

John only arches a brow and waits.

“Lots of times,” Sherlock finally manages.  “Baskerville, for one.”  

John feels the corner of his mouth quirk.  He nods in acknowledgement.  “Yeah, okay.  Go on then.  When else?”

“The Bainbridge case…”  Sherlock’s gone all soft beside him, suddenly looking half his age, his eyes going from petulant to something that almost looks like hurt.  

John reaches out and pulls him close, and Sherlock’s face is hot as he tucks it up against his neck.  John presses a kiss to the top of his head.  “Yeah, I suppose.  I suppose I did, didn’t I.”  

Sherlock doesn’t say a thing.

“So that’s what you want?” John tries, a little gentler this time.  “You just want me to tell you what to do?”

Sherlock nods against his neck.

“And what happens if you don’t listen, if you disobey orders?”

Sherlock goes still beside him, but his cock gives a small, but decided twitch against the top of John’s thigh.  He starts to pull back, but John just tightens his hold round his waist.  “Mmm…  Interesting.”

Sherlock huffs against his shoulder, and John smiles.  “I mean it, though, Sherlock.  These are things we should talk about.”

“Why?”  _Definitely pouting again._

“Because, it’s like you said.  Part of that feeling of safety is knowing consequences as well as expectations.”

“Oh.”

“What do you want, then, hmm…?  That’s where I think I kind of got hung up.  I don’t want to punish you with pain.  I’m not sure I’m even comfortable thinking about it as punishment at all, to be honest.”

“No pain—good,” Sherlock mutters into the pillow beside John’s ear.

“Well then, what?”

Sherlock comes up for air, with a small puff against John’s cheek, pressing his nose just behind his ear.  “I’ll be good.”

John’s glances over at the tangle of curls tickling his cheek and smiles.  “You’re almost never good.”

Sherlock’s head snaps up.  He looks truly affronted, and John laughs.  “You know I’m right.  You’re a handful.”

“I’ll be good.”  There’s something so small, so sincere in this statement, that John can’t help but sober a little.

“Yeah, okay.  I believe you.”  Reaching over he brushes the hair away from Sherlock’s forehead, and then reaches back to work small circles at his nape with his thumb.  “But I still think that we should be clear on stuff.  For me as well as you.  I don’t want surprises.  Well—not unpleasant ones, at any rate.”

Sherlock just nods.

“Withholding pleasure?  Release?”

Sherlock blinks.

“As consequence,” John clarifies.  “If you don’t follow orders, then—you wait.  I don’t touch you.  I make you wait for it, you earn it back.  Logical consequences, yeah?  Sound fair?”

Sherlock just stares, but his lips part slightly, and his cock seems to undeniably agree it’s a good idea.  John smiles.  “You have to answer me, acknowledge you’ve heard and will comply.  Just say—‘Yes, John.’”

“Yes, John,” Sherlock echoes instantly, and without hesitation.

“Or ‘ _No, John._ ’” John qualifies quickly.

“No, John.  I mean, Yes, John.  Yes.  I want that.  That’s fine.”

John nods.  “Okay.  Good.  And just like always, you’ll tell me if you’re uncomfortable, or if you don’t like it, or want to stop, or anything like that, right?”

“Of course, John.  Don’t be stupid.”

John frowns.  “And none of that.  No smart mouth, understood.”  

Sherlock blinks, eyes tracking quickly side to side in that way that always let’s John know he’s thinking.  When his eyes finally find John’s again, they are penitent and acquiescent.  “Alright.” before he drops them again.

Reaching out, John eases a thumb over the contours of Sherlock’s cheekbone, and curls a finger lightly under his jaw, easing his chin up.  “Hey, can you look at me for a second.”  Sherlock does as asked, and John smiles.  “Promise me.  Promise me you’ll tell me if there’s anything at all you don’t like.  I’m going to check in a lot.”

Sherlock nods.

“What do you say,” John tests.

“Yes, John.  I promise.”

“And when you wrote that letter, this is what you meant you wanted, just the safety, the security of orders and compliance?”

Sherlock nods again.

“Then why didn’t you say so?”

“I did!”  Sherlock protests.  “That’s exactly what I said.”

“You didn’t.  You said you wanted to be marked, and owned.”

Sherlock’s face goes slack again, he looks almost sheepish, and John nods.  “There, see.  You know I’m right.”

“But you do mark me, already John.”

“Yeah, and I…”  He means to protest, to say he hates it, feels the twinge of guilt of it every single time.  But it isn’t true.  Sometimes he can get half hard again just seeing the small bruises he left on Sherlock’s neck peaking out from beneath his shirt collar the next day.

“And you want to,” Sherlock grins.  “And I want you to.  So what’s the problem?”

John let’s out a little grunt of a laugh in spite of himself, and Sherlock looks pleased.  

“But, why do you want it?”  John asks after a moment of comfortable silence, broken only by the soft patter of the rain against the widows, and the popping of the fire in the bedroom hearth.

Sherlock’s eyes soften. “Do you really not know?”

John just shakes his head.

“No one ever wanted me before you.  And then there you were.  You, of all people—someone so brave, so good, so perfect in every way, and you did.  You wanted me.  

“Why wouldn’t I want to be marked?  Why wouldn’t I want the world to know I’m yours?  It’s an honour I still can’t believe myself sometimes, and when I look down and see the marks you leave on me, it’s a reminder.  It’s a reminder that you want me, John.  It’s a gift.”

John doesn’t know what to say.  He continues to softly toy with the curls at Sherlock’s nape instead, finally tilting his chin down, and pressing his forehead against Sherlock’s.  “Yeah?”

“Yes…” Sherlock whispers.

“I’m not sure I know how to do this,” John finally confesses.

“You do,” Sherlock insists.

“You think?”

“I know,”  Sherlock assures, dropping his voice, and doing his best imitation of pure seduction.

John grins back wickedly.  “You sound pretty sure about that?”  And when Sherlock only blinks in return, he surges forward, and flips him on his back, managing to pin him quite expertly to the bed, in one swift move.  

The flush that had just been starting to fade from Sherlock’s cheeks, rushes back in an instant.  He gasps, and his eyes go wide, pupils dilating so fast John can watch it happen.  Sherlock’s whole expression changes, everything softening around the edges, telegraphing vulnerability, and eager curiosity.  John is instantly and unexpectedly aroused. 

He leans forward a little, using his body weight to press Sherlock’s wrists more deeply into the pillow behind his head.  “Good?”

Sherlock just nods.

“What do you say?” John demands.

“Yes, John.”  Sherlock’s voice is slightly higher than usual, breathy and ragged around the edges, and John feels a fresh surge of warmth race through his veins, and settle in his cock, at the sound.

“You can be good, you said, yeah?”

“Yes, John.”

“Do you know what I think?”

“No.”

“No, _John_ ,” John corrects.

“No, John,” Sherlock amends.

“I think that we should put that statement to the test.  See just how good you can be.”

“Yes, John.”

“And what’s the rule?”

“Tell you if I’m uncomfortable.  Be honest when you ask.”

“That’s right.  And I have a few more rules.  Listen carefully, because you’re going to have to prove to me you remember.”

Sherlock trembles a little beneath him, swallows dryly, and then nods.  “Yes, John.”

“First.  No touching me.  I can touch you, but you can’t touch me back.  Secondly.  No talking, not a peep, unless you want to tell me to stop, or I ask you a direct question.  Thirdly…”  John stares down at Sherlock’s flushed body, his wide eyes, and slightly parted lips, relishes in the weight, and fullness of Sherlock’s cock, pressed up against the crease in his thigh.  He rolls his hips experimentally, and Sherlock’s eyes slide shut, a small huff of air escaping his lungs in what John can only assume is a desperate attempt to suppress an audible moan.

“Thirdly,” John murmurs, leaning forward again, until his forehead is nearly pressed against Sherlock’s.  “No coming, until I give you permission.  Is that understood?” he breathes against his lips.

Sherlock’s eyelids flutter, and he opens his mouth two or three times, as though attempting to respond, but John’s found a rhythm he likes now, and Sherlock seems to be swiftly losing all ability to speak.  “Is that understood?” John repeats, a little more firmly this time.

Sherlock nods eagerly.  “Yes—Yes, John,” he gasps.

John nods, “Good.”  And with that he sits up, climbs off Sherlock, and walks into the loo, without further comment.

Absolute silence reigns from the bedroom beyond.  It’s rather remarkable, really.  He had fully expected a petulant inquiry into where he was going, but nothing.  He tries to foresee everything they might need, and gathers up the all the accoutrements he can think of—Sherlock’s pain medication and eye drops, condoms, lube, massage oil, a damp flannel, and hand towel, all of which he sets into the small empty trash bin by the toilet for transporting back to the bedroom.  Finally he pours a glass of water, and then shuts out the light again.  When he returns, Sherlock is laying exactly as he’d left him, wrists crossed above his head, body naked and flushed, chest rising and falling with pants of arousal, and cock heavy and full, resting against the flat plane of his belly.

John stops in the doorway and stares.  Sherlock willingly laid out like this, vulnerable and waiting, is much headier than John could ever have anticipated.  He feels his head clear, and everything else slip away.  He _can_ do this.  There is a strange sort of ease to it.  Sherlock _is_ right.  This is a role he finds comfort in—the calm, the control of it.  He takes a deep breath through his nose, darts his tongue out to moisten his lips and then strides back into the room, a changed and determined man.

“Well done,” he offers, as he sits on the edge of the bed, and reaches down to card fingers through Sherlock’s hair.  “Amazing, actually.  I wasn’t sure you’d manage that, keeping your mouth shut, but you’ve risen to the occasion, I see!”  He lets his eyes wander the length of Sherlock’s body, lingering a moment at his twitching cock, before looking back up to his eyes again with a smirk.  “Definitely risen to the occasion.”

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitches, and John’s sniffs out small laugh.  “First things first, though.”  He holds up the glass of water and bottle of medication in his hands.  “Sit up and take this for me.”

Sherlock snaps up, takes the glass and the two pills John has dispensed, and swallows them without comment.  John takes the glass back, and sets it on the nightstand.  “Good.  Now lie down, so I can do your eye drops.”

And again, Sherlock does exactly as instructed, lays perfectly still, letting John dispense the drops, and dab away the excess that leaks from beneath his closed lids with none of his usual whinging.  “Keep your eyes closed for a minute.  Let it do it’s thing.” 

John takes the opportunity to drink in the sight of Sherlock, prone and naked before him.Breathtaking.Every glimpse of him like this feels like the first.Reaching down, he runs his fingers through Sherlocks hair, again, rubs small circles into his scalp, and watches him physically let go.“You were right.You can be good.You’re being so good.”

Sherlock sighs, virtually melting into the mattress.

“You can open your eyes now.”

Sherlock does, and there is something there that John has never seen before, something earnest, and genuine, and almost a little desperate.  It’s gratitude, John realises.  He’s transfixed, as he continues to soothe his fingers through Sherlock’s hair.  “How’s your pain today?”

“Moderate,” Sherlock responds obediently.

John nods.  “We’ll give the meds time to kick in, then.  That’s good.  Gives me time to spoil you a little.”

Sherlock opens his mouth to speak, and John cocks an eyebrow at him.  He clamps his mouth shut, again, without a sound.

“Where does it hurt the most, today?”

“Lower back.  Hips.  Ribs.”

John nods.  “Roll over.”

Sherlock does.

“Are you warm enough?”

“Yes, John.”

“Good.  I’m going to rub out these muscles a bit, alright.”

“Yes, John.”

“You’ll tell me it hurts, if it does.  Understood?”

“Yes, John.”

“Perfect.  Good.”

Reaching over, John picks up the bottle of rather expensive massage oil he picked up from one of the little boutiques in Friston, one day, while running errands without Sherlock.  Lemon grass and mint.  The minute he uncaps the heavy, glass bottle, Sherlock puts his nose in the air, and cranes his head over his shoulder in an attempt to see.

“What’s that?”

John freezes, fixes Sherlock with a look of reprimand, which prompts Sherlock to immediately press his lips together, and bury his face in the pillow.

John bites back a smile ( _insatiably curious…_ ), but composes himself again before he speaks.  “Look at me.”

Sherlock’s cheeks are flushed crimson when he looks back up.

“You know the rule.”

Sherlock nods.

“Apologise.”

“I’m sorry, John.”

John nods.  “Now you wait.  As you were.”  Sherlock lays back down, looking duly chastised, and John recaps the bottle, and then takes it with him as he stands up from the side of the bed, shrugs into his dressing gown, and leaves the room, shutting the door behind him.

Gladstone stands up from his spot by the hearth, the minute John reappears, and John let’s the dog follow him into the the kitchen, feeds him his breakfast, get’s himself a drink of water, and then, after a few minutes have passed, returns to the bedroom, bottle of massage oil in hand.

Sherlock is laying very still, exactly where he left him.

When John walks back around to Sherlock’s side of the bed, he leans against the wall, and taps the bottle of massage oil against his palm a few times, before setting it back on the night stand.  Sherlock blinks up at him from the pillow.  “Alright.  Let’s try this again.  No talking.  No touching.  If this turns you on, tell me.  We’ll stop for protection.  We still need to be really careful right now.”

Sherlock nods, “Yes, John.”  He blinks up at him, eyes pleading, and John frowns.

“You okay?  You wanna say something?  Go ahead.”

“Maybe now.”

“Maybe now what?”

“Protection.  Now, John.  Now would be—good.”

John smirks in surprise.  “Oh.  Well—well then, yeah.  Roll over.”

Sherlock does as he’s told, and sure enough, his arousal from earlier hasn’t flagged in the least.  John feels a twinge of sympathy.  It’s a long time to be laying there in such a state.  He rubs a warm hand gently over Sherlock’s hip.  “You okay?”

Sherlock’s eyes had slid shut at the touch, but he opens them again, and swallows thickly, before answering.  “Yes, John.”

John nods toward his flushed cock.  “I kind of thought that might have diminished a bit while I was gone.  Be honest with me.  Are you really okay?”

“Yes, John.”

“Okay.”

John works quickly, tearing open the small packet he’d brought earlier from the loo, and rolling the condom efficiently down Sherlock’s shaft.  A muscle in Sherlock’s jaw twitches, and he sucks in a tiny breath through his nose at the contact, but then settles again, just as quickly.  John pats him gently on the hip.  “Good.  Well done.  Roll over again for me, and slide over a little.”

Bringing the bottle of massage oil with him, John crawls back onto the bed, and sits beside Sherlock, letting him watch as he dispenses a drop into hand, letting it warm in his palms.  “Smell alright?”

“Yes, John.”

“How’s your pain?  If I straddle your thighs, are you going to be alright?”

“I think so.”

John nods.  “Alright, but you tell me to stop if it hurts, okay.”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, John.”

“Good.”  Leaning down, John presses a kiss to Sherlock’s shoulder, before scooping up the bottle of massage oil, and crawling over, to climb astride Sherlock.  He settles, bare arse settling where the curve of Sherlock’s arse meets the top of his thighs, and let’s his half-hard cock rest in the cradle of Sherlock’s cleft, dressing gown fanning out over his legs.

Sherlock sucks in a hiss of a breath.

“Alright?”

“Yes, John.”

“You sure?”

“Yes, John.”

“Alright.  I’m going to work on your back.  Work some of this tension out.  You be good, and lie still and quiet for me.”

Sherlock doesn’t make a sound, as John rubs a little more massage oil into his palms, and starts in on Sherlock’s lower back—good, firm strokes either side of his spine, and then, after several minutes of this, the skin warming, and muscles relaxing beneath his touch, he curves round the side of his hips, and then down over the gluteal muscles.  He doesn’t say anything, just watches Sherlock’s response, carefully.

It’s clearly having an effect.  Sherlock’s gone lax and soft, melting into the mattress, boneless.  His shoulders are rising and falling with shallow pants, and he has a handful of pillow balled tightly in one fist, knuckles almost white with the effort of staying still.

John shifts his weight, leans down, and presses a kiss to the centre of Sherlock’s spine.  “Gorgeous,” he murmurs against his skin.  Moving down, still further, he presses another kiss to the dimples of Sherlock’s lower back.  “Perfect.  You’re doing so well.”

A small hint of a whimper escapes from Sherlock’s throat, and John pushes up and away, a little.  “What was that?”

Sherlock just shakes his head vigorously against the pillow.

“Look at me,” John orders.

Sherlock does, and John nearly comes undone at the sight—cheeks flushed, hair tousled over his forehead, and eyes glazed and heavy-lidded.  

“Jesus…” John murmurs in spite of himself.  _They’ve barely begun, and already…_ “You don’t make a sound, remember.”

Sherlock nods.

“That’s twice now, I’ve had to remind you.  Don’t let it happen again.”  He’s firm, but not angry.

Sherlock’s eyes glisten, looking suddenly and suspiciously full, and John is a little taken aback.  “If this is too much, we can stop.”

Sherlock shakes his head with conviction.  “No, John.  I’ll be good.  Let me be good for you.”

Something sweet, and warm tightens around John’s heart.  He reaches out, runs a thumb lightly across Sherlock’s forehead.  “Yeah?  I know you can.  You can be good, Sherlock.  You told me you could, and I believe you.  You’re doing really well.  So still.  The talking’s going to be the hardest thing.  That mouth…”  He winks, and Sherlock blinks up at him.   “Of course we’ll go on if you like.”

Sherlock nods.  “Yes, John,” in barely a whisper.

“Okay,” John murmurs softly.  “Lie back down.”  He smoothes a hand over Sherlock’s hip, in a soothing gesture as he complies.  “Now that you’ve tested my patience twice, I’ve got to present you with a proper challenge.”

Sherlock lets out a small huff, and John smiles.  “You up for that, you think?”

“Yes, John,” Sherlock murmurs into folds of his pillow.

“If you're perfectly still, and perfectly quiet, then you’ll have permission to come.”

Sherlock huffs again, but says nothing.

“Good.  Lovely.  On we go, then…”

Sherlock shivers.  It’s amply warm in the room now.  John is actually almost too warm in his dressing gown.  So, it’s not from the cold.  Anticipation, then.  Sheer anticipation…

John ghosts his hands over Sherlock’s back, down over the rise of his arse, and Sherlock shivers again, but doesn’t make a sound.  “Gorgeous,” John whispers against his spine.  “Extraordinary.”

Sherlock takes a deep breath, holds it, lets it out again, long and drawn out.

Even still slightly mussy with sleep, Sherlock smells amazing, and John can’t help but continue  his descent, pressing kisses down over the rise of Sherlock’s arse, gently to the inside of his thighs, before dragging his nose up the length of his cleft.  Sherlock clutches the pillow tight, and buries his face in it, as a quiver of pleasure passes through him.

_Ohh…_

“You like that?”

A rough, broken, and slightly muffled, “Yes, John,” comes from the depths of Sherlock’s pillow.  

John smiles.  “Good.  Me too.  Let’s see how good you can be, yeah?”  And with that, John licks a firm, wet stripe up the length of Sherlock’s crack.

Sherlock trembles, again, head-to-toe, but still not a peep.

“Jesus,” John breathes against Sherlock’s skin, massaging the gluteal muscles more firmly, parting them slowly with each stroke, relishing in the small glimpses of the even greater delight that lies between them.  This is new, and it’s unexpected.  They’ve never done this before, and it is swiftly becoming evident that that is an oversight best rectified swiftly, and with relish.  “God Sherlock, you’re so…”  

It’s the scent of him that’s making John heady—musky, masculine, a mix of sweat, and arousal, and—well, arse, John supposes, but it’s all Sherlock, and there’s something so illicit, so intimate, so primal about it, that it makes John’s head go light, and his cock throb with need.  

With a groan, he slips down, spreads Sherlock’s thighs, and runs two thumbs down the length of Sherlock’s cleft, spreading him wide before burying his face there, and breathing deep.

Sherlock twitches, and then claws at the sheets beneath him, and his continued silence seems like a small miracle now, because it’s John moaning into him, rocking his hips against the mattress in an attempt to chase the added friction he needs.

He flicks out his tongue, and dares a taste, and…  “Oh, Christ!”  hummed against the tight, puckered entrance to Sherlock’s body.  John is coming undone, swiftly, and without restraint.  He could come from this, he suddenly realises.  He could come just from the taste of Sherlock’s arse on his tongue, and the scent of his arousal thick in his nostrils.  

If Sherlock were to make a sound now, it would be all over in seconds.  But he’s still ridiculously compliant.  Silent and save the trembling he clearly cannot control, still as stone.  John feels something deep, and almost feral take over, a switch that’s somehow flipped in his brain.  He’s fully in control, but he’s drowning, too.  All he wants is more, more of the man shaking apart beneath him.  

“God Sherlock, you’re so good.  So perfect…”  And he follows the words with kisses, soft and careful, at first, but then full, open, wet as he continues, until he’s laving, and sucking at the entrance to Sherlock’s body, teasing it with pointed tongue, so hungry for admittance, to be inside him, to have him all…

Sherlock is trembling violently now, and something in the back of John’s mind registers this, that he should let up, should give him some means of release, something to ease off the strain.  He’s been more obedient than John could ever have thought possible, and it’s time to let him let go a little.

“You’re brilliant, Sherlock.  Fantastic, and I want to hear how much you like this, okay.  You make as much sound as you want.”

A whine of relief breaks free from Sherlock’s throat, followed by a moan, so deep and guttural it races straight to John’s cock, where it builds to the breaking point.  It’s too much.  With a couple of firm thrusts against the mattress beneath him, John comes hard over the sheets, digging his fingers into the taut flesh of Sherlock’s arse hard enough to leave bruises, and moaning his release loudly against the warm, damp heat of Sherlock’s body. 

It’s a powerful, full-body thing that leaves him trembling almost as much as the man beneath him.  As the last wave washes over him, and wrings him dry, he rests his cheek against one of Sherlock’s and pants heavily against his hole, still twitching and glistening with John’s saliva.  Sherlock is whimpering without ceasing now, and shaking even more violently than before.  It takes a moment for John’s pleasure addled brain to register this fact, but when he finally does, it rushes back in with an all consuming urgency.

John shakily props himself up on one elbow, and kisses and then nips lightly at one cheek.  Sherlock lets out a cry.  “John, please!  Oh god, please!”

“You want it?  You wanna come?”

The only response is a strangled moan.

“Yeah.  We’re almost there.  You’ve been brilliant.  Amazing, I—Oh God, Oh Christ, I love you.”

John, presses his tongue firmly against Sherlock’s entrance, and waits, and when he finally feels him relax, finally slips just a little bit inside, Sherlock gasps, ragged, broken, desperate above him.  “John!”

He moves his tongue, just a little, testing, and hums appreciatively as Sherlock’s trembling only increases.  He pulls out again, kissing and tasting the spot where his tongue has just been, and then presses back in again, just a little deeper.  Sherlock’s whole body goes taut, and then shakes forcefully for a moment, as he lets out a desperate, ragged sob.

“Shh…  It’s alright.  You’re gorgeous.  Perfect,” John soothes.  “You okay?”  When he get’s no response, John pulls away, and glances up.  “Look at me, okay?  Can you do that?”  But Sherlock has gone complete still, and quiet.  “Hey…”  John scrambles up his body, slotting in beside him, and gently rolling Sherlock over to face him.

His eyes are closed, mouth lax, curls plastered to his forehead with perspiration, cheeks flushed and wet with tears.  He looks dead drunk.  “Sherlock,” John whispers a small twinge of fear twisting slightly in his gut.  He does a quick visual assessment, and then realises that he’s lost his battle with holding out, and come quite spectacularly.  

“You’re okay, Love.  That’s fine.  You were amazing.  Hold on.”  Divesting him of the used condom, John deposits it in the bin he brought in from the loo earlier, and then cleans him carefully with the wet flannel, and towel.  Sherlock’s skin has erupted with goose flesh, and he’s starting to shiver.  John grabs the blanket from the end of the bed, and wraps it as tightly around him as he can, before pulling Sherlock in against his chest and holding on tight.  

“Shh… I’ve got you… You were right, Sherlock.  You were so good.  You did everything I asked, and this is okay.  It was too much, yeah?  You can tell me.  Remember that, okay.  You can tell me when you’ve had enough.”

Sherlock is still relatively unresponsive, and John’s never had this happen with any partner before.  “You have to give me a sign you’re okay, alright.  If you can’t talk, that’s fine, but just something.”

He can feel Sherlock’s eyelashes flutter against his neck.After a moment or so, this is followed by a small puff of a sigh, and a soft press of lips to his clavicle.John let’s out a heaving sigh of relief, and pulls Sherlock closer.“I’m here.You take as much time as you need.I’m here.I’ve got you.Not going anywhere, okay.”

Sherlock nods once, and then quiets again.

John presses his lips to the top of his head, and trails his fingers lightly down his back through the blanket.  “I love you, you know.  So much, I…”  He sucks in a quivering breath.  “I’ve never loved anyone like this before.  I didn’t know I could.  You’re everything to me, Sherlock.”

Sherlock hums softly in acknowledgement.

The rain outside has picked up, and the light levels in the room have dipped even further.  Gladstone is scratching intermittently at the bedroom door, now.  John ignores it.  He drifts in and out of sleep, only vaguely aware of the passage of time, and the comforting weight of the man in his arms.  It’s Sherlock’s voice that finally drags him back to the present.

“John?”

“Mmm…” he hums agains the top of his head.

“I love you.”

John blinks his eyes open, and pulls back a little, tilting his chin down.  Sherlock looks up, eyes bright and full.  “I love you,” he repeats.

“I love you, too,” John whispers.

Something has shifted between them.  There is a settling.  John wonders if Sherlock feels it too.  Some unseen tension that was always there, always humming just below the surface, whenever they fell into bed together, has snapped.  There’s only quiet now.

“I told you,” Sherlock murmurs.

“Told me what?”

“That you wanted this.  That you would be good at it.”

John smiles fondly.  “Was I then?”

Sherlock burrows closer, slotting his leg between John’s thighs.“Don’t fish for compliment’s, John.It’s beneath you.You know you were.”

John smirks, “Mmm…  Smart mouth back in full force, I see.  You’re lucky I’ve just had the most glorious orgasm of my life, or might have something to say about that.”

Sherlock presses his face into John’s neck and chuckles, before pressing a kiss behind his ear, and John just smiles, ruffling his curls in return.  After a moment, he sobers.  “Are you okay, then.  You did worry me there for a bit.”

“I’m fine, John.  I’m more than fine.”

“Was it what you thought it would be?”

“No.”  

John pulls back at that, brow furrowed, but Sherlock just rolls his eyes.  “I’d always wanted it, John.  For as long as I’ve known I wanted you, I’ve wanted this, but I didn’t know how to put it into words, and it’s not something I’d ever had before.  All there were were fantasies.  And reality rarely lives up to fantasy, you know that.”

“Oi!”  Reaching down, John gives Sherlock’s arse a playful swat, but Sherlock just laughs again.

“You _know_ what I mean.  It was different from what I’d imagined.  That doesn’t mean it wasn’t—fantastic.”

John’s ruffled feathers settle a little.  “That’s more like it.”

Sherlock smiles.  “It was, John.  Truly—and, I think it was better—better than what I’d imagined.  You knew what I needed, when I didn’t even quite know myself.  Like I told you, it comes naturally to you.”

“I didn’t push you too far?”

Sherlock shakes his head, his eyes going soft again at the memory of what they’ve just shared, John imagines.  “You pushed me as far as I needed to go.”

“What do you mean, ‘needed’?”

“It’s quiet, now.  It’s never quiet.”

John frowns in confusion.  “In your head you mean?”

“In my head, in my body, in my heart.  All of me.”

John nods, and licks his lips.  “Yeah—yeah, me too.”

Sherlock’s eyes brighten.  “You feel it too, then?”

“Yeah.”

Sherlock, holds his gaze, looking, searching for something.  After a moment he leans in, and presses his lips tenderly to John’s.  The kiss is deep, and leisurely, and John loses himself in the familiar heat, and comfort of it.  When Sherlock finally pulls back he smiles, the smile that John loves, the small, private one, that is only ever for him.  “You are my life’s best part, John.  There was nothing before you, and there will be nothing after.  I’ve made my home in you.  There is nothing else I want or need.  Marry me.  Tell me again, you will.”

John can feel the old familiar bite rise to the corners of his eyes, and he blinks in an attempt to chase it away.  He smiles, the small, crooked, awestruck smile that has only, ever belonged to this man.  “You know I will…  Sometimes I think I would have done that first night, if you’d asked.  12:30 am, in that dim little Chinese place off Marylebone Rd.  That fortune cookie, remember: ‘ _There’s nothing new under the sun_ ’?"  

Sherlock smiles.

“If you’d asked me then, I would have said yes.  I would have gone home with you, and gone to bed with you, and maybe we could have avoided all that came after, Sherlock.  Maybe we could have avoided all that loss and pain.”

Sherlock just shakes his head.  “No use dwelling on ‘what ifs’, John.  You know that.  We have now, and that’s enough for me.”

“For me, too,” John whispers.

Sherlock nods.  “Good.”  He sighs, and rolls onto his back with a stretch.  “Mmm…  Let’s get up, now.  You need a shower, and I need to make you breakfast.”

John cocks a brow.  “You?  Make me breakfast?”

Sherlock frowns.  “I make you meals. I’ve made you meals just since you’ve moved here, in fact!”

“Yeah, well they’re few and far between.”

“You like my eggs,” Sherlock protests.  “You’ve said so!”

John chuckles.  “I do. I do like your eggs.  You’ll put the cheese in them, yeah?”

“Of course."

“Alright, then.  Off you go.”  John gives Sherlock’s hair one more fond ruffle, before rolling out of bed and heading for the loo.

“John,” Sherlock calls from the bed.

“Mmm?”

“It’s unfair you’re still wearing that damned dressing gown.  At least let me have a little flash of something to send me on my way.”  He puts on his best pout, and John can’t help but laugh.

He turns away, but drops his dressing gown to the floor as he heads back into the loo, glancing over his shoulder with a wink, as he does.  “Make sausage and bacon, now.  I’m bloody starving.” 


	2. Appendix ? - Chapter 140

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place after [Chapter 140](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4147626/chapters/12010160) of Letters from Sussex.

Mycroft is smiling.  Red rose petals bloom over white silk.  He blinks once, twice.  He falls.  Fading…  A single hand rests on Sherlock’s forearm, knuckles white against grey wool.  Lips open and close forming words with no sound.  Roses bloom up, out of thoracic cavity, nostrils, throat…  And then the light behind his eyes goes out.  

Sherlock jolts awake with a gasp, stomach churning, and eyes damp.

“Hey…”  John’s voice is soft.  He’s curled next to him in the new bed in the old room, in the grey half-light of the rainy afternoon.  It must be well past tea.  The room is suffused with aromatics of roast chicken, the yeasty comfort of homemade bread, and all under-laced with the cloying sweet of treacle tart.  Mummy is cooking—all his favourites evidently.  

The rain patters against the windows and thrums against the roof.  The dream still clings to the edges of his mind.  His hair moves in whorls and waves—soothing.  _John…_

“Hey,”  John tries again, letting his fingers wander away from Sherlock’s hair, to linger over one cheek.  

This time Sherlock forces himself to focus.  “Hello,” he murmurs back.  

John smiles.  The worry in his eyes fades a little.  ( _Good—that’s good)._ “You dreaming?”

Sherlock nods.  

“You okay?”

He nods again.

“Your mum’s not going to that Halloween thing tonight.  She’s decided to spend the night here at home.  She’s making you a nice supper, I think.”

“Mmm, yes.  Roast chicken.”

John just smiles.  “Not ready for awhile, yet, though.  She knows we’re kipping for a bit.”

There are still worry lines etched deep between John’s brows.  He’s put them there, Sherlock knows.  John’s entire body is telegraphing concern, and all because, once again, Sherlock has failed to control himself.  It is unbearable to the extreme, being ruled by one’s emotions in such a way!  But what is to be done?  It is all or nothing.  It always has been.  _Nothing_ is no longer acceptable.  So, _all_ it is…

Reaching out, Sherlock presses two fingers to the furrow in an attempt to smooth it, erase it, even though he knows it to be a completely futile endeavour.  This is who John is now—tied to him.  Sherlock’s pain is John’s pain, and the only way to erase it is to tell John what he needs.

“I’ve worried you,” he whispers, pulling in closer, dropping his hand from John’s face, to wrap around his waist, and pull him close.  “I’ve worried you, and I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.  You don’t have to apologise for any of that today.  It’s only natural.  I just want to make sure you’re alright.”

“I’m fine, John.  You’re here.”

This elicits a warm, pleased smile.  John pulls himself even closer, and presses his forehead against Sherlock’s on the pillow.  “I am, you know.  I always will be.”

Sherlock smiles back.  John has the loveliest eyelashes, long, and fair, and just the slightest bit curled.  This close, with their noses slotted in beside one another, their lips mere millimetres apart, Sherlock can feel them fan gently against his every time John blinks.  He lets his eyes slide shut, and relishes in the caress of them against his eyelids. 

“You know,” John breathes with just a hint of suggestion in his tone.  “Your parents think we’re sleeping.”

Sherlock doesn’t bother to open his eyes, but he does nothing to stop the smile that spreads across his lips at John’s unmistakable proposition.

“Mmm…”  John rolls his hips a little against Sherlocks thigh, and chuckles.  “Have some ideas, then, do you…?”

Sherlock laughs back.  “Maybe…”  Tilting his chin he closes what tiny gap remains between them, and presses his lips to John’s.  It’s almost chaste, just the comforting press of John’s lips against his, their breath mingling, the slow synchronisation of their heartbeats.  

It’s Sherlock who finally breaks the spell, letting his hand slide from the small of John’s back, down over the curve of his arse.  He kneads a little at the firm contours beneath his fingers, pulls John in even closer.

John hums appreciatively against his lips, and deepens their kiss with an enticing slide and tangle of tongues, and another cant of his hips against Sherlock’s thigh.  He’s half hard now, and just the simple knowledge of that is enough to trigger the now familiar rush of blood from Sherlock’s brain to his cock.  It makes him slightly light-headed every time—the ache, the need, the hunger of it still surprising, even after all the times they’ve been together like this.  Each time is new.  Each time Sherlock learns something about John he didn’t know before.  He’s able to fill in more of the blanks and colour in the spaces.  It’s absolutely intoxicating.  

Pressing his thigh up against John’s swiftly burgeoning erection, Sherlock fumbles about at the waistband of John’s trousers, and slips beneath his belt, just managing to slide a single finger down to rest in the crack of his arse.  John groans, and Sherlock smiles against his lips before pulling away a little.  “Shh…”

John quirks a brow.  “I though you wanted to give your parents something to talk about?”

“Don’t tease, John.  Mummy is just there in the kitchen,” he jerks his head a little in the direction of the grate partially hidden beneath the wardrobe behind him.

John laughs quietly, and then reaches down between them and palms Sherlock purposefully through his trousers.  “Well, it seems not _all_ of you minds.”  And then he winks, damn him.  John actually winks at him!

Sherlock feels his mouth go dry with want.  He swallows dryly, tongue darting out in at attempt to moisten his lips.  John’s hand is finding a rhythm now, just the perfect amount of pressure, the perfect friction up, and down, and Sherlock let’s his eyes slide shut, and sucks in a sharp breath.

The whisper of John’s breath is hot against his ear.  “What if I told you I wanted you to moan for me?  What if I said I wanted your parents to know just exactly how well I satisfy you, hmm?  Would you gasp, and moan, and cry out for me?”  

“Yes, John…” 

John nuzzles behind his ear, and presses kisses there, tongue following, tasting.  He takes Sherlock’s lobe between his lips, drags his teeth gently over it before pulling back.  “You’re gorgeous you know…”  murmured low and hoarse against his jaw.

“I love you,” Sherlock whispers without thought.  “I love you, John…  I love you.”

Pans clatter below them, the faucet is turned on, and then off again.  The rain picks up outside, patters agains the window panes, pings hollowly in the gutters.  John’s fingers fumble at the buttons on Sherlock’s shirt, loosing them, pushing the folds of fabric back, and dipping hands beneath.  “I love you, too,” whispered against his lips before John presses against them in another kiss, his hands easing down over ribs, thumbs grazing nipples.  “So much…”

“You’re mine,” John breathes against his neck, before, sucking hard and following up with a careful bite.  It will leave a mark, Sherlock knows.  It will leave a mark right where his parents will see it.  This is John’s little compromise.  They will keep quiet, if Sherlock likes, but still there will be evidence, evidence John knows well enough that Mummy’s keen eyes would never miss.  “Say it,” John orders in a sharp, and desperate whisper.

“I’m yours”  Sherlock huffs against John’s hair.  “Only yours.”

John nips at his neck again, and Sherlock hisses at the small shot of pain.  John soothes with kisses, lathing gently at the spot he’s marked.  “God, I want you.  I’d do anything for you, you know, I’d—I’d kill for you.” hummed so deep Sherlock can feel the vibrations of it where their chests press together.

“I’d die for you,” Sherlock sighs back.

John stills, and Sherlock is instantly bereft without the ministrations of his tongue, the roll of his hips, the whispers of touch that were only moments before being lavished over his body.  He hums a little in objection, but then John’s face is buried in his neck, hot and tight.  

“No,” he finally manages.  “Don’t you say that.  Don’t you ever fucking say that, you understand…”  His voice is raw, and rough, and Sherlock realises his mistake in an instant.  “Kiss me,” John murmurs against his neck.  “Kiss me, and promise me you’ll never leave again.  Promise me.”

A shudder passes through the man lying across his chest, as Sherlock reaches down to card fingers through his warm, sweat-damp hair.  “John, look at me…”

It’s getting late now, the sun beginning to set behind the clouds, the room velvety thick with dusk.  But, Sherlock can still see enough to make out the tight line of John’s mouth, the pain in his eyes, the muscle that twitches in his jaw.  He takes John’s face in both of his hands.  “I promise.  I promise you, John.  I will never run off, headlong into danger, without a thought of you.  I will never keep you in the dark in an attempt to keep you safe.  No more vows.  Only this.  Only a simple promise.”  Sherlock guides John’s lips gently to his.  When he pulls away, the tips of his fingers are wet with John’s tears.  “No more secrets.  No more lies.  No more leaving.  You will never have to spend another day of your life alone.  You have my word.”

When John’s mouth crashes against his, it knocks the breath from Sherlock’s lungs.  He tastes salt, and copper, and lust, and all he can do is fall back beneath the force of it, and hold on tight.  He lets John take him, lets him come unravelled, wild, above him.  It feels like letting go, like falling, like flying all at once, it feels like dying, and when John comes hard, a strangled, almost feral cry torn from his throat, Sherlock smiles, and buries his face in John’s neck, breaths in the intoxicating scent of him—all adrenaline, and sweat, and sex.

John is trembling, rung out.  The pots downstairs are clattering much more loudly than necessary, so clearly they’ve been overheard, but it’s glorious, breathtaking.  John is a miracle of pure, uninhibited, human emotion, and Sherlock thinks it is the most beautiful thing he has ever seen.

Words aren’t needed now.  In fact, Sherlock very much doubts that John would be able to form any if asked.  He’s still panting hard, gasping out small sobs into Sherlock’s hair, and Sherlock trails kisses down the column of his neck, traces lines down the length of his back, through shirt and jumper, grounding him, easing him back down.  

Sherlock has come apart like this with John, but he has never seen John unravel in quite such a spectacular fashion.  It’s what he’s been waiting for, he realises.  And how strange that it has snuck up on them here, like this, completely unexpected.  And in Sherlock’s boyhood bedroom, no less, his parents just downstairs, and now turning on the stereo extra loud, for good measure.

“Shit,” John finally mumbles into the pillow several long minutes later.  “Your parents.”

Sherlock laughs, and John’s head snaps up.  “What?”

“You…”  Sherlock is smiling like an idiot.  He’s quite aware of it, but he feels giddy, and there’s nothing for it.  

John tries to look angry for all of five seconds before deteriorating into a fit of giggles.  This only makes Sherlock laugh more.  There is no sound in the world more wonderful than John’s laughter.  It makes all the pain, all the separation, all the suffering, everything it’s ever taken for them to get to this exact moment, completely worth it.  Sherlock’s whole body sings at the sound.

Finally John takes a deep breath, sighs, and rolls off of Sherlock to flop down on the bed beside him.  He stares up at the ceiling and shakes his head.  “I’m going to have to sit through supper with your parents now, make conversation, pretend that they didn’t hear that.”

“They may have heard that all the way in the next county, John.”

John reaches over and swats at his arm, but lets out a little huff of a laugh anyway.

Sherlock stares over at him, and his heart swells with fondness.  John’s hair is a riotous mess, his cheeks flushed pink, shirt untucked and peaking from beneath his rumpled jumper.  “I meant it, you know.”  John turns to look at him again.  “I meant it, John.  Every word.  You will never have to go another day of your life without me here to share it with you.”

John holds his gaze.  He looks almost angry, for a moment, but it fades, and softens out into something Sherlock has never seen before.  “Good…  Good, because I won’t do it again, Sherlock.  I can’t.  I won’t survive a next time.”

Sherlock nods.  “I know.”

John rolls onto his side to face him.  He looks tired, but not unhappy.  He looks—changed somehow.  Searching Sherlock’s eyes for a moment, John finally lets his own drop to wander the length of his body.  Propping himself up on one shoulder, he nods toward the slight bulge in Sherlock’s trousers.  “You okay?  You want me to…”

Sherlock just shakes his head.

“Sure?”

“I’m fine, John.”

John nods, and grows quiet again.  The oven opens downstairs, the scent of roast chicken grows stronger, and then fades again.  Supper will be ready soon.

“This is different than I thought it would be.”

Sherlock’s attention snaps back to John.  “My parent’s house?”

“No.  This.  Us.  Everything we are.  It’s different than I thought.”

Something sick and cold twists in Sherlock’s gut, but then John’s brow is furrowing, and his hand is reaching out, cupping Sherlock’s cheek, thumb easing over one cheekbone.  “No.  No, not like that.”  He lays back down, and scoots in close, wrapping an arm around Sherlock’s waist, and drawing him in.  “Just—I don’t know what I thought would happen if you ever loved me, if I ever found the courage to tell you everything you meant to me.  But this wasn’t it.  This is—this is so much more than I could have ever dreamed, Sherlock.  This is something I didn’t even know that people could have.”

“Is it good?”  It’s embarrassing how small and vulnerable he sounds.  But It prompts John to tighten his hold, to lean in and press the sweetest, most languid kiss to his lips, and so he can’t feel too poorly.

“So good…” John whispers when he finally pulls away.  “The best thing that has ever happened to me.”  He smiles, and Sherlock feels warm, and safe, and perfectly content in the light of it.

“You’re _my_ best thing, John.”

He sees John’s eyes fill, sees him swallow tightly, look briefly away, and then back again.  But, he’s smiling despite it all.  He’s happy, Sherlock thinks.  He’s pleased to be Sherlock’s best thing, and there is nothing in the world Sherlock could want more than that.

Three sharp raps sound on the floor below them, followed by Mummy’s voice, “Supper in fifteen!”

Sherlock just rolls his eyes.

John laughs.  “Did she just rap on the ceiling with a broom handle?”

“It’s how she’s always called me to supper.”

John chuckles, and sits up.  “Well, there’s nothing for it, I suppose.  I’ll have to go down and face the humiliation.”

Sherlock grins, and isn’t able to hide it quick enough, when John looks back down at him.  “Oi!  You’re pleased, aren’t you?  You’re sitting there bloody pleased with yourself, and I’m the one who’s going to have to sit there trying to pretend…”

Sherlock laughs, and John scowls.  This only makes him laugh more, and after a moment John lunges forward, wrestling him into submission, and pinning his hands above his head.  Sherlock’s laughter fades, but the smile remains.  “You’re a real cock, you know that,” John smiles back.

“You love my cock,” Sherlock teases.

“Mmm…  That I do.  That’s what’s got us into this mess in the first place, now, isn’t it.”

Sherlock huffs out a small laugh, and then settles again, relishing in the weight of John’s body atop his.  “You’re not really upset, are you?”

John smirks.  “Not upset.  But it is a tad embarrassing.  I’ve never come undone like that before, and of course the one time I do it had to be within earshot of your parents.”

“Never?”

John’s eyes soften, and he tilts his head down to press his forehead against Sherlock’s.  “Nope.  Never.”

“Why today, do you think?”

John blinks down at him, and Sherlock can tell he’s thinking.  “Because it was safe now,” he finally murmurs.

“Safe?”

“You’re staying,” John clarifies.  “I think you finally know how much you mean to me, how much I love you, and you’re staying.”

“I do.  I am.  Yes.”

John nods, and smiles a tiny, crooked smile.  “And that’s why today, Sherlock.”

Sherlock nods, and then rolls his eyes as three more knocks sound on the floor below them, and Mommy’s voice shatters the intimacy of the moment.  “ _Supper, boys!  Don’t let it get cold!_ ”

John giggles into Sherlock’s neck, and then rolls off of him, and gets to his feet.  “I have to change, and get cleaned up a bit.  Won’t be but a minute or two.”

“I could help,” Sherlock winks.

“Don’t you dare.  We’ll never get down there to eat.”

“Oh, I don’t know.  There are worse things.  I’d rather do my eating up here anyway…”  He winks and is pleased to see the slightest bit of colour return to John’s cheeks.  He lifts a finger in mock reprimand.

“None of that.  You need to eat, Sherlock.  A proper supper, not my arse.”

“Yes, John,” he replies obediently, and John nods.

“Well good.  That’s good.  So, I’ll just…”  he cants his head in the direction of the toilet.

“Yes, do.  I’ll go down and break the ice a little.”

John cocks a brow, “And just how are you going to do that?”

“I’ll just tell them I regularly reduce you to a quivering, moaning mass of pleasure, and that you’re still rather embarrassed by it, so they shouldn’t say a thing.”

“Don’t you dare…”

Sherlock laughs.  “Not good?”

John tosses a dirty jumper at him, from where he is knelt rooting about his suitcase for clean pants, and Sherlock just laughs some more.  “John…”

“Mmm…?” 

“I’m glad you know I’m not leaving.”  John looks up, and swallows tightly.  “I should have seen it earlier.  I shouldn’t have been such a fool, run off on that Culverton Smith case alone.”

John just nods.  “No you shouldn’t.  But it’s done now.  You’re here, by some miracle.  You’re here with me now, and you’re not leaving, and that’s enough for me.  Now stop sitting there overthinking it all, and go down and ease my way with your parents.  Christ, I’ve never been so reckless in my life!”

“You love it.”

John grins, and stands up, clean pants in hand.  “Yeah—maybe just a bit.”


	3. Appendix ? - Chapter 148

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place after Chapter 148 of Letters from Sussex, and is a companion to it.

Sherlock is standing beside the kitchen table, face beaming, dog at his feet, thumping his tail against the hardwood, when John sweeps through the door to the back garden on an icy gust of wind. 

Sherlock smiles, stares.  John just stands bundled in the hall, blinking.  After a moment Sherlock’s smile fades, only to be replaced with a frown. “What’s wrong?”

Shaking his head, John forces a smile, he knows Sherlock will see right through.  “Nothing…  Nothing. I’m just…”

Sherlock takes a step forward, eyes narrowed, as they sweep up and down John’s body in a brief assessment.  “You’re anxious?  Why?”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes—you are.”

“No, I’m not.”  John lets out a puff of a breath he’d been holding without even realising it, and then turns away, unzipping his coat, and removing his scarf. John doesn’t know what he thought would happen when this moment finally came, after all those long weeks of waiting, but the sudden surge of awkwardness was definitely not it.

“We don’t have to.”

John toes out of his boots, shrugs out of his coat, turning to hang it on the hook by the backdoor.  “Don’t have to what?”  When the question is met with nothing but silence, he looks up.  Sherlock is staring at him pointedly.  He jerks his head in the direction of the bedroom.  John blinks.  “You don’t want to?”

“I wondered if you didn’t.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

Sherlock just shrugs.

Gladstone looks back and forth between them, as though waiting for something.  John jumps at the distraction.  “Has he eaten?”

“Not yet.”  There is a definite pout to Sherlock’s tone.  

“Best feed him then, yeah?”

“Yes.”

Sherlock turns, disappears into the pantry, and John is left standing alone at the entry to the kitchen.  It’s quiet, with the exception of the winter wind outside rattling the window panes, and whistling down the chimney floo across the room.

_Shit…_

When John reaches the door to the pantry, he leans back against the doorjamb, and watches Sherlock, knelt down, murmuring softly to the dog, while he sneaks a biscuit atop his bowl of food.

“He’ll get fat.”

Sherlock’s head snaps up.

John smiles.  “Do you do that every time you feed him?  Because he _will_ get fat, you know.”  Sherlock doesn’t say anything.  “Come here…”  John finally orders.

Sherlock gets to his feet, dusts his hands off on the front of his trousers, and does as asked.  But, he stops a few inches shy of John’s body.  “Come here,” John urges again, a little more gently, and Sherlock steps forward, let’s John lift his arms around his waist, and pull him in close.  “I’m sorry.”

“For what…?”  Sherlock won’t look at him.  He stares at some random spot on the shoulder of John’s jumper, instead.  _Still sulking, then._

“For not being as enthusiastic as I should have been.  I am excited, Sherlock.  I’m over the moon.  I don’t know what this is, what I’m feeling.  But, I am so glad you’re well, getting better every day.  I’m glad we don’t have limits anymore.”

“No.”

“No?”  John tilts his chin down trying to catch Sherlock’s eye, but Sherlock’s reached out, and started to toy with a loose thread at the shoulder seam of his jumper now.  He’s not really paying attention.

“No.”

“No what?” John scowls.

Sherlock pulls slightly at the thread,and John reaches up and lightly swats his hand away.  Sherlock looks up.  “No.  You’re not glad.”

John licks his lips and bites down on the inside of his cheek, in an attempt to not say something he’ll regret.  “I am actually, thanks so much.”

Sherlock just stares.  He looks and looks until John is squirming.  “What!”  John finally demands.

“You’re anxious.”

“Okay—genius.  About what?”  _Short, sarcastic, just a little unkind._

Sherlock frowns a little, a small furrow forming between his brows, as he drops of his eyes away from John’s. 

John sighs.  “Sorry.  Sorry again.”  _Frustrated._   And then,  “Sorry…”  A little more softly.

When Sherlock looks up again, he looks like he’s decided something.  “I mean it, John.  I meant it before out there in the kitchen.  We don’t have to.  If—if _that_ is something you never want to do, it’s alright.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

John swallows tightly.  Tries not to think about the pain shooting through his leg.  “I didn’t expect to feel this way.  I don’t know what this is.”

“Fear?”

“No.”

“Anxiety?”

“Maybe.”

“Why?”

John just shakes his head.  “I don’t know.  I love you.  I love us.  I love what we do when we’re together.”

“I know you do.”  Sherlock leans down, presses his forehead to John’s, and lowers his voice to that soft, deep murmur that always manages to send a shiver of anticipation through every cell.  It’s gentle, and intimate, and laced with promise.  “I know…  I do.”

“I’ve thought about it,” John offers.

Sherlock’s arches a brow, the corner of his mouth twitching upward in an irrepressible hint of a smile.  “Have you?”

“Mm…”

“Fantasised about it?”

John can’t help a smile of his own.  “Maybe…”

Sherlock’s cheeks flush pink and he tilts down, tucks his hot face against John’s neck, still icy cold from outside.  John shivers a little at the contrast, and then lets out a small huff of surprise and pleasure, when Sherlock takes the opportunity to press his lips against the crook between John’s shoulder and neck.  

“You’re trying to soften me up.”

He can feel Sherlock smile against his skin.  “Mmm…  Maybe.”

He luxuriates in the heat of Sherlock’s warm, wet tongue against his flesh, feels small sparks of echoing pleasure erupt across his skin, and race downward.  “Well, it’s working,” he breathes.  “Don’t stop.”

“Didn’t intend to…”  Sherlock fumbles with the top button of John’s shirt, and lets out a little huff.  “Always so buttoned up.”

“You don’t like it?”

Finally the button let’s go, and Sherlock dips down to press his lips to John’s suprasternal notch.  “Didn’t say that.  I like having to unwrap you every single time. 

John chuckles.“Do you now?”

“Mmm…”

“Sherlock…”  John bites back a hum of pleasure, as another button let’s loose, and Sherlock’s mouth travels still lower.  “Gladstone’s done eating.  He needs to go out.”

“Shh…”  Sherlock sinks to his knees, and John’s own go weak.

“Excuse me?”  John tries on a little feigned reprimand.  “Did you just, shh… _iiit_ ,” but all train of thought is completely interrupted as Sherlock unzips his flies and presses his hot mouth softly to John’s stirring cock, through the thin cotton of his pants.

“Mmm…” Sherlock hums against him, and then looks up from beneath dark lashes.  “What were you saying?”

John just shakes his head, and Sherlock grins wickedly, and returns to the endeavour before him.

John has the distinct feeling he’s being played, delicately and with great skill.  But the anxiety from before is all but gone now, and all he can think about is the building pleasure, the pressure and heat of Sherlock’s mouth and breath against him, the way Sherlock’s thumbs are stroking along his inner thighs, the way his knees are already threatening to give out on him.  Never a good sign.  He’s not going to last long, and that will never do. 

Sherlock’s said what he wants, asked so many times, been so patient, and now they’re free to…  

_And oh god, but that feels good…_

“Stop thinking,” Sherlock mouths through the cotton of his pants.

“Not.”

“Yes you are,” as he hooks a finger in the waistband of John’s pants, and pulls downward, exposing the head of John’s cock to the cool air in the pantry.  His lips follow, and John throws his head back so hard it makes a smart crack against the doorjamb.  The stab of pain is slight.  It’s nothing compared to the pleasure of Sherlock’s hot, wet mouth enveloping him.  He hisses slightly, and feels Sherlock smile around him.

Gladstone is pacing back and forth, sniffing impatiently, and Sherlock is doing a remarkable job of ignoring him, but it can’t last.  It’s a sharp bark that finally breaks Sherlock’s focus, and he pops his mouth off the head of John’s cock and scowls at the dog.  “What?!”

Gladstone barks again, and John laughs.  “I told you,” he manages, slightly breathless.

“Oh for…  Out!”

Gladstone circles them, tail wagging, and stops to sniff at John’s trousers and pants which are now pooled at his ankles.  John chuckles again, and cards fingers through Sherlock’s hair.  “Welcome to married life.”  Sherlock turns his scowl on him, and John sobers.  “Sorry.  Sorry.  But maybe you should let him out, and then we can move this to the bedroom, yeah?”

This suggestion is met with a long-suffering sigh.  “It’s ruined the mood.”

“We’ll recreate the mood.”

“I’ll have to wait for him to do his business and come back in, and then you’ll have time to think.”

“What?”

“You’ll have time to lay there in the bedroom and think, and then you’ll be anxious all over again.”

John rubs the pads of his fingers soothingly against Sherlock’s scalp, and steps out of the clothing pooled at his feet.  “Get up here.”

Sherlock does, but he doesn’t look happy about it.

“Look at me,” John urges, as he pushes away from the doorjamb and wraps his arms around Sherlock’s waist.

Sherlock’s eyes meet his, one eyebrow arched in challenge.  “What?”

“We’ll figure it out.  We always do.  I do want this, you know.  As much as you do.  You think I haven’t dreamed of what it might feel like to be inside you?”

Sherlock’s eyes snap up from the placket of John’s shirt, and his mouth drops open the slightest bit.  

John smiles.  “Yeah…  I think about it.  I’ve told you.  And you were right to try this.”  He drops his eyes momentarily to his erection, flagging slightly, now, against the soft cotton of Sherlock’s trouser front.  “It helped.  And we’ll figure it out again when you get back.  Now let out the damn dog, and then get your lovely arse back in our bedroom, because I’ll be more than a little put out if you keep me waiting too long.”

Sherlock blinks three times, as a soft flush colours his cheeks.  A smile blooms across his lips, and he pulls away.  “Yes, John.”

John grants him a smirk followed by a playful swat to the bum as he exits the pantry with Gladstone.

The bedroom is ice cold when John enters.  A fire is in order then.  Shrugging quickly out of the rest of his clothes, he slips into a dressing gown, and then goes about building one.   He’s just managed to get it to catch, when Sherlock finally returns, ordering Gladstone to stay, and then shutting him out in the lounge.

“Oh.  You got undressed.”  He sounds disappointed.

“Well, I was halfway there already.”

“Mmm.  True.”  Now it’s Sherlock who seems anxious.  He’s wandering around the room, randomly tracing his fingers over wallpaper, pieces of furniture.  

John watches him for a moment, and then sighs.  “Strip.”

Sherlock freezes, sucks in a little breath through his nose.  He turns eyebrow raised slightly in inquiry.

John nods in affirmation.  “You heard me.  Come over here where it’s warm, and strip for me.”

“But…”

John arches a brow in warning, and Sherlock clamps his mouth shut, and comes to stand in front of him on the hearth rug.  It’s easier now.  He can feel them slipping easily into these roles, and it instantly saps any lingering anxiety from the enterprise.  John takes a slight step back, stands in parade rest stance.  Sherlock’s cock gives a decided twitch of interest in his trousers.

“When your ready, then,” John urges.

Sherlock’s hands snap up to his shirt buttons, and start to lose them with remarkable speed.

“It’s not a race.  Take your time.”  John grins a little wickedly.  “Tease me a bit.”

He sees Sherlock swallow dryly, looks down and licks his lips at the site of the slight bulge already forming in the front of Sherlock’s trousers.  Christ, but it doesn’t take him long once you flip the right switch.

Sherlock lifts his fingers to the front of his his shirt again, and finishes off the buttons, much more leisurely, now, easing them through the button holes with studied care.  He pulls the hem of his shirt slowly from beneath his belt, and lets his shirt hang open, exposing a pale strip of skin, a soft dusting of hair, the single, pink pock of a scar just below his sternum.  No matter how many times John sees it, it always gives him pause, and an echoing tug in his own chest, that almost feels like pain.  He pushes it down.  Not now.  

Sherlock’s noticed, of course.His fingers have stilled.

“What did I say?  There’s no reason to stop.”

And just like that, Sherlock’s hands drop to his belt, slide the leather through the buckle tantalisingly slow.  He loosens the button, unzips his flies.  John’s own cock stirs in response, and he sees Sherlock notice, sees the way his lips part, pupils dilate, the way his nipples rise to small peaks beneath the thin cotton/silk blend of his shirt.  His breath has grown shallow.  He hooks his thumbs beneath the waist of his trousers and starts to ease them down over his hips.

“Stop,” John orders.   Sherlock freezes.   “Drop your hands.  Let me do the rest.”

When he steps into Sherlock’s orbit, Sherlock’s eyelids hood, and his whole body tilts forward the slightest bit.  It’s almost imperceptible, but John sees it, sees the way every cell in Sherlock’s body is straining, reaching for contact, the way he tilts his chin a little, trying to brush John’s fringe with his nose.

“I have one rule this evening,” John lets all the heat of his mounting desire leak into his voice.  It’s low, and hungry, and rough around the edges, but the tone of authority never wavers.  Sherlock doesn’t say anything, and so he continues.  “No touching.  No touching me.  No touching yourself.  Is that understood?”

“Yes, John.”  It’s already thready, and filled with need.

“Christ, you respond so beautifully to this, don’t you…”

Sherlock lets out the smallest whimper.  “Yes…”  Barely a whisper.

“You can make all the sound you want. I want to hear the sounds you make.  Sometimes I think you could make me come just from that.”

Sherlock’s started to go soft round the edges now, any of the pique or petulance from earlier has completely disappeared.  His entire being and focus is on John’s every word and movement.  He’s pliant and quivering in anticipation.

John’s eyes rake over Sherlock’s half exposed body—a glimpse of chest, a trail of dark auburn hair leading down beneath a V of exposed, black, cotton pants.  He licks and then bites at his bottom lip before taking a step forward and using a single finger to lightly lift one side of Sherlock’s shirt away from his chest.

Sherlock’s eyes slip shut, and he chews slightly at his bottom lip in nervous anticipation.  

John takes another step forward.  He’s close enough, now, that he knows Sherlock can feel the heat from his body.  He loosens the tie of his dressing gown, lets it fall open.  

Sherlock sways forward a little and John takes a small step back in warning.  They’re so attuned, that Sherlock senses his mistake without even opening his eyes.  He forces himself to stand a little more erect, plants his feet firmly against the carpet.

John moves back in, tilts his chin a little, breathes against Sherlocks lips.  “Well done.  I didn’t even have to correct you.  You’re learning.  So clever…”  He tilts his head the other side, breathes against his jaw.  “So good.”

Sherlock shivers.  His breath is coming is small panting gasps now.  “John, please…”

“Mmm…”  John hums, dipping his hands beneath the open folds of Sherlock’s shirt, and ghosting his fingers over his ribs.  Sherlock’s breath hitches, and when John lets a thumb graze lightly over one erect nipple, he let’s out a desperate whimper.  “What do you want?  You’re being so good, and you’re free to talk.  Tell me what you want.”

“This,” Sherlock chokes out.

John lifts his other hand to tease at hardened nub of his other nipple.  “Just this?”

Sherlock weaves a little, but steadies himself again.  “No…”

“Then what?  Tell me.  Tell me what you want.”

Another small whimper escapes Sherlock’s throat, but he simply shakes his head.  

“Suddenly speechless, are you?”  John smiles.  Sherlock’s coming undone so quickly, and he thinks it may just be the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.  “Well,” John dips in, mouths against the flushed skin of Sherlock’s neck.  “I’ve known you for a long time.  I’ve observed.  I know your methods.  Should we see if I can deduce for myself, hmm?”

Sherlock nods vigorous, eyes closed, still weaving on his feet, which is becoming a bit of a concern so close to the fire, truth be told.

“Lets finish getting you unwrapped first, though, yeah…?”  John reaches down and takes one of Sherlock’s hands in his, turns it over, palm side up, and then slowly unbuttons and pushes back the cuff of his shirt.  He’s so beautifully sensitive.  Even the slightest breath of air against his skin can sometimes cause his eyelashes to flutter shut, and his whole body to thrum with awareness and arousal.  John brushes a finger over his palm.  Sherlock sighs.  He traces it down the line of his wrist.  Sherlock gasps.

Letting that hand go, he repeats the pattern with his other as well, and lifts it to his lips and presses a kiss to the inside of Sherlock’s wrist.  His knees buckle, and John reaches out to steady him, but it’s not really necessary.  Sherlock quickly recovers himself.  His eyes are still closed, and John thinks that he would like to see what it might take to get them open again.

“That good, hmm?”

Sherlock nods.

“Again?”

“Please…”

John presses his lips to the inside of Sherlock’s wrist again, but this time he lets his tongue join them.  Sherlock lets out a strangled gasp at the unexpected sensation, warm and wet against his skin, but his eyes remain closed.

Not to be deterred, John presses one more kiss to Sherlock’s palm, and then licks a slow wet swath across it.  Sherlock whines.  But it’s when he take’s Sherlock’s wet palm, and guides it down to press against John’s, naked, leaking cock, that Sherlock’s eyes finally snap open, and he lets out a keening moan so gorgeous, John feels his bollocks tighten, and a wash of pleasure that is almost overwhelming grip him in response.

“Oh fuck…”

“John…”Sherlock pants.“Can I?Please.I want to?”

“Don’t!”  John barks.

Sherlock instantly stills.  He’s trembling all over with the effort of it, but he hasn’t moved his fingers a millimetre.

John breathes deep, wills away the release threatening with even the slightest wrong move.  After a moment, he carefully removes Sherlock’s hand, and looks up at him with eyes he knows must be hazy with lust.  “I might need you to be quiet after all.”

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitches upward a little, and John smiles in response.  “You’re amazing.  Perfect.  Too perfect maybe…”

A small wrinkle forms between Sherlock’s brows.

But John just steps forward again, slides his hands up the firm planes of Sherlock’s chest and eases his shirt off, over his shoulders, letting it flutter to the floor.  “Christ your beautiful…  I wasn’t lying before.  I think you could make me come just with the sounds you make.  Some night I think I’ll let you try.  But not now.”

“Did I do it wrong?  I didn’t touch.  You…”

John nods.  “Yeah, that was my fault.  You’re perfect.  Stop worrying.”

The furrow disappears, and Sherlock’s whole body settles into something that looks like relief.

“You look like you’re having trouble staying upright.”

“I’m trying.”

“I know, and I’m not being as observant as I should.  Let’s get you out of the rest of this kit, so I can tend to you properly, yeah?”

Sherlock simply nods.

John doesn’t dally with trousers, or pants, or socks.  He has Sherlock out of them, and standing fully naked before him, in seconds.  His cock is gorgeous, flushed dark, twitching, and leaking with need.  John’s mouth waters, but he has other plans.  “How’s your pain today?”

“Fine, John.”

John nods toward the single armchair set in front of their bedroom hearth.  “If I gave you a cushion to kneel on, do you think you could manage being on your knees on the floor, bent over the seat of that chair?”

Sherlock’s eyes widen a little, his mouth pressing together into a small bow.  He nods.

“Good,” John murmurs.  “Don’t move.”

He fetches two pillows off the bed, and the bottle of lube and massage oil from the bedside table, and then returns to the hearth.  Tossing one of the pillows onto the floor in front of the armchair, he jerks his chin towards it.  “On your knees.”

Sherlock turns and drops.  “I’m clean.”

“Sorry?”

“Whatever you want to do, I—I made sure I was clean.”

John can’t fight back the smile teasing the corners of his mouth.  “When was this?”

Sherlock looks slightly sheepish when he replies.  “After the lab called with my results.”

John smiles in earnest.  _Definitely eager, then…_   “Well ta.  Well done.  We’re both going to be glad of that, in a minute.”

Sherlock’s face turns a delightful beet, and John chuckles, and then tosses the other pillow he’s holding just behind Sherlock’s feet.  “How about you sit for now.”  Sherlock looks over his shoulder, and John holds up the small glass bottle of massage oil in explanation.  “I want to make sure you’re ready for this, nice and relaxed.”

“I am ready.”  There’s almost a hint of a pout to the reply, and John cocks a brow.

“Sit.”

Sherlock shifts quickly from his knees to his arse, settling atop the pillow John’s provided, with his legs crossed in front of him.

“Better.”  John kneels behind him, dispenses a little of the massage oil, and starts in on Sherlock’s neck and shoulders. “You’ll thank me for this, trust me.  You forget, I’m a doctor.  I know about these things.”

“What things?”  There’s still a slight edge of sulkiness in his tone, but there’s definitely curiosity there too.

John leans in, lets the whole of him press against Sherlock’s bare back, as he murmurs his response against his ear.  “Things such as—you should be relaxed—completely, and wholly relaxed—before I press inside you.”

Sherlock sucks in a little gulp of air.

“Mm-hm…  So just trust me.”

“I do…  I do, John.”

“Good.  Then stop thinking.”  He feels Sherlock’s shoulders drop beneath his hands in response, and smiles.  

It’s warm this close to the hearth, and the fire that John had lit earlier is roaring along nicely, now. Sherlock’s skin is warm, and pink, and just a little sticky from the heat, and John’s oil-slick hands glide easily over his shoulders, and down the planes of his back, up either side of his spine, and into the curls at his nape.  Sherlock hums contentedly when he reaches that spot, and so he spends some time easing the pads of his fingers over Sherlock’s scalp as well.  

John’s arousal has quieted, and settled into something easily bearable.  The urgency of it is gone, but it still sits heavy and warm, curled in the centre of him, waiting to be stoked high and hot again.  He shrugs out of his dressing gown, and relishes in the sensation of increased vulnerability.

Sherlock is all but leaning back against him now, subtly trying to inch closer, get more contact. John regrets his rule from earlier.  It had seemed a bit of fun then, and it had got them both worked up in record time, but now he finds he’s craving this extra bit of contact as much as Sherlock.

“You’re amazing, you know,” murmured close to Sherlock’s ear.  “I love you.”

Sherlock’s face turns into the words, his face soft, eyes full of adoration of his own, but he stops himself, lips mere millimetres from John’s.  His breath is warm, the chalky mint of toothpaste wafting over John’s lips.  “I love you,” John repeats, and wonders why his throat feels so tight.  “Sod the bloody rules.  Just kiss me.”

Sherlock lets out a small puff of breath, almost a laugh John thinks, before leaning in and claiming John’s mouth with his.  The kiss is deep, and slow.  There’s hunger in it, but no desperation.  Sherlock takes his time, a heady slide of lips, and dance of tongues.  John wants to crawl into his lap, crawl under his skin, crawl all the way to the centre of him, and suddenly he knows—yes, he wants this as much as Sherlock does— to be inside of him, to feel the thrum of his pulse, the twitch of his muscles, every small, almost infinitesimal reaction to John’s scent, and touch, and voice.

Somehow they’ve ended up on the hearth rug, a tangle of sweat-slick limbs, sighs, and soft moans, hands everywhere at once.  It’s not at all what John had planned, but it’s perfect.  John pulls Sherlock flush against his body, relishes in the way Sherlock’s cock twitches as it slots in next to his.  

Reaching around, he takes a single finger, and draws a delicate line from the nape of Sherlock’s neck, all the way down the length of his spine.  Sherlock nestles closer in response.  But it’s when John reaches the cleft of his arse, and continues his finger’s route downward, teasing lightly up, and then down, hinting at what might come next, that Sherlock whimpers and presses his face hot against John’s temple.

“You’re still sure about this?”

“Yes, John.  Please.”

John’s finger slides easily between, and Sherlock pushes closer, his breath coming shallow, and quick, ruffling the fringe of John’s hair, while he intermittently presses sloppy kisses to John’s forehead.  John works his finger slowly, closer, with each stroke, until finally he brushes against the puckered muscle at Sherlock’s entrance.  

Sherlock gasps.  “Oh god, John—please.  Please.”

“It’s good?”

“John…”  Only a moan, as he circles with his finger, presses, gently.   Sherlock has started to roll his hips, an involuntary reaction to the pleasure, no doubt, and John lets him.  His cock is rock hard, and leaking, as it brushes against John’s.  He’s not going to last, that’s clear already.  But they’ll get as far as they can.

“Reach behind you and get me that lube.”

“Don’t need it.”

“Yeah, you do.”

Sherlock fumbles about behind his back, and finally finding what he’s looking for, presses it against John’s chest, between them.  When John slips his finger away, to retrieve the bottle, Sherlock moans in protest.

“Yeah, I know.  Hold on.”  John doesn’t waste any time.  Sherlock is pulling him closer, kissing anything he can reach, and when John finally slips his finger back between his cleft, and presses against him again, Sherlock lets out the most gorgeous whine.

John smiles, and presses a little more firmly, waiting for the muscle to relax, for Sherlock to take him in, it doesn’t take long.  He slips in past the first knuckle easily, and Sherlock gasps.

“Okay?”

“Of course.  More.”

John chuckles.  “Yeah, okay.”

Sherlock is squirming, the rhythm of the roll of his pelvis against John’s becomes desperate and erratic.  And the need, the desperation it implies is only serving to bank John’s own desire to near unbearable levels.  “Hey…  You need to settle a little.  You’re not going to last if you keep that up, and neither am I.”

Sherlock stills instantly, but his chest is still heaving, his cock throbbing against John’s.  “That’s better…”

John eases his finger out just a little, and then presses back in again, inching just a little deeper this time.

“Another,” Sherlock demands against his temple.

“Another what?”

“Another finger.”

“Not yet.  Christ, you’re impatient.”

“I want it!”  It’s a definite whinge.

“Yeah, I know you do, but you’re tense still.  Just have some bloody patience.”

Sherlock huffs against his hair.

“It’ll be worth it, trust me.”

Another huff.

John smiles.  “Kiss me.  Come on.”  Sherlock tilts his chin down to stare at him.  He’s pouting, and John can’t help but chuckle.  “You’re going to be well satisfied, trust me—now kiss me.”

He tilts his chin up, and Sherlock brings his lips down to meet him.  They fall back into their previous rhythm easily, and Sherlock’s a squirming, frantic mess again within minutes.  John’s been sliding his finger in and out, deepening the contact with each pass, and Sherlock’s arousal is so high now, that he’s barely noticed.

John’s close himself.  It won’t take much, just the right sort of sound from Sherlock’s lips and he’s going to tip over the edge.  He wonders if they might not be able to come together.  Bloody unlikely, but worth a try.  

Sherlock’s ready, even with only one finger inside, John’s got him teetering on the brink, and he’s kept well away from his prostate, if he were to curl his finger just a little on the next pass, Sherlock would surely make the sounds he loves so much.

“Christ, you’re perfect,” John breathes against his mouth.  “You’re bloody gorgeous.  I think you’re ready, don’t you?”

“Please…”

“Yeah?  You want it?”

“Please, John!”  It’s strangled and frantic.  And John’s right at the brink, too barely holding on.  He can feel Sherlock’s internal muscles twitching around his finger.  He’s going to come, and all it’s going to take is…

John curls his finger just a little, easily finds what he’s looking for.  He rubs once, twice, and then Sherlock’s whole body goes rigid, his cock and arse pulsing in synchronised rhythm against John’s belly and finger, as he comes.  And the sounds he makes…  It’s like nothing John’s ever been able to tease out of him before—wild, frantic, almost feral.  

It tears apart the last vestiges of John’s control, and then he’s coming too—hard—the kind of orgasm he’s only had a few times in his life, vision whiting out around the edges, stars popping behind his eyes, balls pulling up so tight it’s skirting the edges of pain, as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over him.

They both collapse against one another, panting, sated, barely conscious.  Sherlock is still clinging to him, as though he needs the touch, needs the connection, even now, and John can only wrap his arms around him, and drift.

When the realities of his surroundings finally start to seep back in around the edges of his consciousness, he realises that Sherlock is trembling against him.  Fumbling around for his dressing gown, he finally finds it just behind his back, and pulls it up, to cover them both the best he can as he draws Sherlock in against his chest, carding his fingers through his hair.  “You alright?”

Sherlock nods.

“You were perfect, amazing.  That was the best I’ve ever had.”

“Was it?”  Muffled against John’s chest.

“Yeah!  Christ—sure it was!  Wasn’t it good for you?”

Sherlock finally pulls back, and blinks up at him.  “It was—it—I…”

John smiles, brow furrowed, waiting.

“I love you,” Sherlock finally manages.  “I love you, John.  I love you.”

“I love you, too.  You sure you’re okay?”

Sherlock nods, and burrows in against him again, one arm sandwiched between them, pressing against John’s chest, the other sneaking over his waist to draw him in.  “I’m sorry.”

John frowns.  “Sorry?  For what?”

“Didn’t last.”

“Your loss,” John chuckles.  “I had a fantastic time.”

Sherlock tilts his chin up, and just blinks at him, and John runs his fingers through Sherlock’s hair again, presses his lips to his forehead.  “There’s time.  There’s all the time in the world.  We’ll get there.  I figured we might have to work up to it.  I know you’ve toyed around with this on your own, but it’s different when it’s someone else doing the touching.”

“You weren’t disappointed in me?”

John huffs out a small laugh. “Are you joking?  You were fantastic!  That was fantastic!”  Sherlock’s cheeks flush an even brighter pink than they already are, and John smiles.  “I know you wanted—you wanted more from this, but it was a good start, and you sounded like you were enjoying yourself, so…”

“I was—I did.”

“Well—good then.  Next time maybe we’ll manage that second finger.”  John winks, and Sherlock smirks, looking well pleased.

“It was amazing, John.  You were amazing.”

“Good to know.”

“I mean it, I…”  Sherlock’s staring up at him, eyes suddenly, and suspiciously full.

“Hey.”  John traces a finger along one cheekbone.  “I know you mean it.  I do.”

Sherlock’s lips part, and his eyes glisten.  “I never thought I’d have this.  With you.  With anyone.”

“Have what?”

“This.  What—what we just shared, what we’re sharing right now.  Any of this, all of it.”

John just shakes his head, and brushes away one of the tears that’s finally escaped, from Sherlock’s cheek.  “Why?”

“Because people don’t want someone like me.”

“What are you talking about?”

“No one ever wanted me, John.  No one until you.”

“People are idiots.”  Sherlock chokes out a shaky laugh, and John smiles down at him.  “It’s true.  You told me that the night we met, remember.  Most people are.”

“You’re not.”

“Quite right.  And that why I have you, and why I was allowed to give you the best orgasm of your life just now.”

“How do you know it was the best orgasm of my life?”

“Oi!”  John mocks indignation.

Sherlock chuckles.  “It was, though—definitively and assuredly.”

“That’s more like it.”  John leans down and capture’s Sherlock’s mouth in a messy kiss.  When he finally pulls back, Sherlock blinks once, and then cranes his neck up to take in the room around them.

“It’s cold down here.”

“It is,” John agrees.  “Bath?”

“Mm—good idea.”

Sherlock pushes himself up, and away, and stares down at the mess smeared across their bellies, and staining the carpet beneath them.  “I think we might have ruined this carpet.”

John sits up.  “We’ll send it out to be cleaned.  And if it can’t be, we’ll get something new.  I never much liked it anyway.  It’s yellow.”

“Came with the cottage.  I think it was Janine’s.”

John scowls.  “Oh Christ, let’s not go there…”

The corners of Sherlock’s mouth twitch.  “Still jealous?”

“Maybe—a bit.”

“I love you,” Sherlock chuckles.  John scowls, and Sherlock just leans in and kisses him again.  “You just had your fingers up my arse, and you’re still jealous of a woman who kissed me once or twice, and who I was only marginally involved with for a case.  I love you.  You’re ridiculous.”

John wants to be angry, but he can only smile in response.  He is.  He’s quite ridiculous, and he knows it, and it doesn’t matter.  Nothing matters anymore, because they have one another, and it still feels like a small miracle, every single time. 


	4. Appendix ? - Chapter 150

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This Appendix takes place after Chapter 150 of "Letters from Sussex".

“Sit with me.”

And Sherlock does immediately, because John is asking, and John needs.  He needs tonight.  Simply that.  Needs Sherlock’s closeness.  The warmth of him, the scent of him, the comforting weight of his presence.

Dinner’s finished, the dishes all washed and put away, left overs wrapped and put up for tomorrow, and now there is just this cold, unseasonably snowy night, the warm fire in the lounge, “A Christmas Carol” with Alastair Sim on DVD, and John, leaning against him, head on his shoulder, dog curled in his lap as they sit on the couch and watch.  

It’s too early for Christmas films, really.  But John had wanted it, and John should have whatever he wants tonight.  He is small, and vulnerable.  Like a butterfly that has just emerged from it’s chrysalis, all trembling and soft.

He gets this way, sometimes.  Sherlock never knows quite why, or when it will come.  It’s frustrating.  He’s so skilled at reading John most of the time.  But this thing goes deep.  It’s complicated, and threaded through, knotted to heart, and head, and body.  A complex web, woven from every harsh voice, every subtle judgement, every blow.  And the holidays are hard anyway.  They’ve always been—for both of them.

Sherlock’s in pyjamas and a t-shirt, wrapped in a blanket, and John occasionally rubs his rough cheek against the smooth, bare skin of Sherlock’s bicep.  It burns like fire, and Sherlock loves it.  It’s a reminder of how the tenderest, and most well meaning of caresses, can sometimes burn, none-the-less.

He reaches between them, twines his fingers with John’s.  That’s fine.  It’s a good start.  John warms up beautifully, but tonight extra care is needed…

John curls his fingers when Sherlock soothes a thumb back-and-forth over the back of his hand.  He leans in closer.  When Sherlock tilts his head down and presses his lips to the top of John’s head, John sighs contentedly, eyelids starting to droop off-and-on, as he watches the film flickering over the television screen across the room.

“John…”

“Mmm…?”

“Thank-you, for dinner.  It was delicious.”

“Mmm.  Know you like that one.”

Sherlock smiles. “I like you.”

John tilts his chin up.  “Well, ta.”  His face is lovely—fond, open.  Whatever had been haunting him earlier seems to be dissipating now.  He’ll want to make love later, to prove to himself that he’s okay, that they’re okay, and that he’s not a bad person, not the the person the ghosts of his past claim.  He isn’t.  Sherlock knows this.  But, John doesn’t know it yet.  That will take time.  But time is something they have now.  “I like you, too.”

Sherlock dips down, and kisses the tip of John’s nose, pulls back again.  It’s not something he’s ever done before.

John stares up at him like he’s just seen the aurora borealis, like he’s gazing at the milky way in the desert at night, or an early summer sunrise over the sea.  It’s something like worship.  Sherlock leans down again, and this time their lips meet, press softly, mingled sighs, a languid, easy slide of tongues.  It’s something just this side of chaste, and it’s warm, and safe, and just what John needs.  

Sherlock feels him let go, all the muscles going loose, pliant, as John leans against him.  

He’s tired.  He should take him to bed.  “You should sleep.”

John blinks up at him, heavy-lidded, and content.  “Sleep—yeah…”

Sherlock kisses John again.  He can’t help himself.  He’s beautiful tonight, in the firelight, the flickering glow from the television, his mouth slightly sour from pasta, and garlic and wine.  When he finally pulls away, John sways forward a little, eyes still shut.  

“You’re asleep sitting up.  Let’s get you to bed.”  Sherlock gets up, urges John to his feet, points him in the direction of the bedroom.  “Go.  I’ll shut everything up for the night.”  

He lets Gladstone out, checks the front door is locked, shuts off the television, and the lights in the lounge and the kitchen, and then lets the dog in again, giving him a pat before he settles into his bed by the hearth.

When he gets back to the bedroom John’s already laying diagonally, across the whole of the mattress, fully clothed, and snoring softly.  Sherlock’s tempted to tuck a blanket around him and leave him be, but John wants Sherlock close tonight.  If he were to wake in the darkness and find himself alone, he would feel abandoned, he would ache, and that is unacceptable.

“John…”  Sherlock whispers fingers through his fringe, ghosts them over one cheek, grazes the backs of knuckles lightly down John’s arm.  “You need to get undressed, get under the covers.  It’s cold.”

John’s eyes open marginally.  He blinks up at him with a lazy smile, almost as though he thinks he’s dreaming.  He may be.  He’s certainly teetering on the brink of sleep and awake.  “Love you…”

“I love you, too.  Sit up.  You need to at least get your trousers off.”

John huffs out a small laugh.  “Always trying to get my trousers off…”

“Yes, well you have very attractive thighs—amongst other assets.”  Reaching down, Sherlock unfastens his belt, unbuttons his flies, and then pats him gently on the hip.  John takes the hint, and lifts his hips from the mattress, letting Sherlock ease his trousers off.  He’s starting to wake up now, it’s obvious, but he’s still feigning sleepiness.  Either he wants to be undressed, but doesn’t feel comfortable asking for it, or he’s hoping that Sherlock will leave him be after he’s tucked in.  It feels like the former tonight.  John is straining into his touch, almost imperceptibly, trying to tease out little bits of skin-on-skin contact.

“Shirt too?”

John nods muzzily.  

When he’s stripped down to vest and pants, Sherlock urges him to stand for a minute, while he turns down the bed, and then tucks him in snuggly.  John reaches out and links two of fingers through Sherlock’s.  “Stay…”

“That was what I was planning.”

“Good.”

Sherlock goes to the loo, puts in his eye-drops, brushes his teeth, takes a piss.  When he returns John’s eyes are closed again.  He undresses quickly, shuts off the lamp and crawls into bed beside him.

The sheets are icy, but John rolls toward him the minute he lies down, one arm slipping under his waist, the other draped over one hip, and he pulls him in close, tangles their limbs, mouths at Sherlock’s Adam’s apple, small puffs of warm, moist breathe wafting over Sherlock’s neck. He’s naked now.  Apparently having stripped while Sherlock prepared for bed.  It’s a welcome surprise. 

Sherlock traces trails up and down his back, using the tips of well-manicured fingernails for just the tiniest hint of added sensation, presses kisses against his scalp.  

John sighs, and pulls closer still.  “You’re everything I ever wanted…”  whispered into the dark.  “I love you.”

“I know, John.  I love you too.”

“I want you…”  a hint of hunger undeniable around the edges of his voice.  Hoarse and needy, but a little sad too.

“I know.”

“I want you all the time.”

“Do you?”

“Yeah…”  A breathy thing as John’s cock stirs slightly between them.

Sherlock smiles into John’s hair, drops his hand a little lower on the next pass, soft finger tips, and smooth, dull nails, tickling over the rise of John’s arse.  All John’s breath escapes in a rush, his skin erupts into gooseflesh.  

“Please…”  John’s never begged before, not like that, not with voice dry, and thready with want, but somehow also small, young, needy, lips trembling against Sherlock’s neck.

“Again?”

“Yes!”  Like a prayer.

And of course he gives it to him.  He would give John anything, everything.

It’s a simple thing, this soft caress, the trail of fingers from shoulder, all the way down John’s back to the top of his thigh.  John’s cock stirs with interest now and again, but this is more comfort than seduction.

John stills, melts against Sherlock’s chest.  “I love you…” again, because John needs Sherlock to know, and he needs to hear himself say it while Sherlock touches him this way, needs to feel the truth of it.  “I love you, so much.”

“I know, John.  I do.  I love you, too.  I always will.”

John’s arms tighten around him.  “Am I a good man?”

“The best man I’ve ever known,” Sherlock whispers against his forehead.

John’s thumb, is rubbing small, thoughtful circles into Sherlock’s hip.  “You’re the best thing that ever happened to me.  I wasn’t really living until I loved you.  I…  Tell me you know, Sherlock.  Tell me you know that I’m honoured to be loved by you.”

“I know, John.  The feeling is quite mutual.”

Sherlock tightens his hold, and rolls onto his, back, bringing John with him.  He goes momentarily tense.  “What are you doing?”

“Just getting comfortable.  My shoulder hurt like that.”  It’s a small lie, but John needs to think this is about Sherlock tonight.  If he thinks it’s for his good, he will be much more amenable to anything Sherlock might try to give him.

John settles against his chest, the full weight of his body atop Sherlock’s.  He will accept this.  It’s what Sherlock needs from him when his brain betrays and overwhelms him, so it will not seem out of place tonight.  And now that both Sherlock’s arms are free, he can stroke John’s back more easily, the full of his palms, large, and warm against the planes of John’s body.  He feels John let go, melt against him as he strokes, and comforts, and calms him.  

Sometimes John needs the past loved out of his bones, and it feels like that now, John’s ear pressed against his heart, his breath puffing out against his chest, arms hooked under Sherlock’s shoulders, the backs of his small fingers absently stroking the hinge of Sherlock’s jaw.  Sherlock lingers a little longer below John’s waist with each pass, begins to knead softly at his buttocks,  John remains pliant, and soft against him.

When Sherlock rubs both thumbs either side of John’s crack, John hums low in his throat.  On the seventh pass, John’s hips give a little roll, and his cock jumps against Sherlock’s.  

“Sher…”

Sherlock let’s his hands drift back up to John’s shoulder blades, again—rubs slow, deft circles.  “Alright?”

“Mmm…”

“More?”

“Yeah.”

And so Sherlock let’s his hands travel downward again.

“Like before,” John breathes, when Sherlock lightly brushes fingers over each gluteal muscle.

“Like this?”  Sherlock massages, parts John just a little more than the time before, and John lets out a breathy ‘uhh’, pelvis canting forward, pressing his burgeoning erection against Sherlock’s.

“Yeah.  Yeah.  God yeah, just like that…”

They really need a little massage oil, something to make this easier, but John’s breath is coming quicker now, his hips rocking in a steady rhythm as he chases his pleasure, and it’s warm under the blankets, they are both beginning to slick with sweat.  

Sherlock never falters, dipping his fingers just a little further between with each pass, and John is letting him, oh he’s letting him, and it’s amazing this, touching John in this way, seeing John respond the way he is, with sighs, and moans, and…  Was that a whimper?

Sherlock feels a surge of arousal race to his cock, and John feels it too, moans against his chest, kisses him sloppily against one nipple.

Sherlock dips deeper each time, until his thumb whispers lightly over the entrance to John’s body.  And John whines, pelvis grinding down hard against Sherlock’s the rhythm of his thrusts speeding up.  It’s difficult without anything to ease the passage, but they’re not going to go that far tonight, not now.  It’s not what John needs.

“Oh Sher—Sherlock…  That’s so…”  And John’s voice threads out again, a small, high-pitched moan that makes every nerve in Sherlock’s body vibrate with desire.

Finally Sherlock slows the rubbing motions, comes to a complete stop, one palm resting, warm on John’s arse, the other, pressed between, pointer finger pressing slightly at his entrance.  John stills.

“Shh…  I’m not going to…”

John relaxes again, his hips beginning their former rhythm.  His cock is rock hard, and sliding easily between their bodies now, each stroke eased by their mingled sweat and pre come.  

Sherlock massages John’s arse, again, and moves his finger in a few small, careful circles against his entrance.

“Oh Christ!”

And it’s good, so obviously good.  John is so sensitive, and so open, and Sherlock almost wonders if he might not let him in, wholly, fully.  But not tonight.  Not tonight.

He kneads, and presses, kneads, and presses.  He drinks in the sounds John makes, like he’s losing control, like that night in Sherlock’s childhood bedroom.  It sounds like he’s clawing, clamouring to hold on, but has no real intention of doing so forever, like he wants to jump, wants to let go, to relish in that thrilling twist in his centre, that moment that feels like flying, just before you race back to earth.

“Please… Oh Jesus, Oh Christ.  Please…”  John’s muscles twitch beneath his finger, and he groans.  John’s body wants him, wants to take him in, even if John heart and mind have yet to catch up.  

“Shh…”   Sherlock whispers against his hair.  “Like this tonight.”

“I just—I…”  John’s thrusts are growing erratic, and the ring of muscle beneath Sherlock’s finger is loose, and pulsing.  John is so hungry…  And Sherlock moves his finger again, careful not to press too hard, not to press inside, just enough to send surges of pleasure singing through John’s body.  “Please…  Oh god, Oh Sherlock please…”

Sherlock kisses John’s sweat-damp fringe, rocks his own hips up to meet John’s.  He’s close himself, so close.  He needs to be careful to not push himself too far.  He needs to hold on for John.

“Please!”  Desperate, keening, so needy, and Sherlock presses as hard as he can without penetrating, moves his finger just so, just a little quicker.  John is slick with sweat now, and Sherlock’s finger easily massages the small ring of muscle, while John ruts against him, reduced to nothing but pure, animal need, all desperate whines, and cries.  And when he comes, he comes hard, shouting into the dark, cock pulsing between their bodies, as ribbon after ribbon adds to the slickness between them, arse twitching and throbbing beneath Sherlock’s finger.

He can feel the way John’s muscle pulses in time with his cock, the way Sherlock has to ease back a little to prevent John’s body taking him all the way in, and he can imagine what it would feel like to be balls deep in him at that moment, to feel John grip, and pulse, and pull him deeper, deeper.  The mere thought is enough to tip him over the edge, and John is still laying limp, and panting, small sobs escaping his throat as Sherlock comes bright, and full, adding to the beautiful mess between them.  

He forces himself to focus, to not let himself float down into the comforting embrace of post-coital haze.  Because John is sobbing now,  not just whimpers, not silent tears, but real broken, gulping sobs, and Sherlock feels a wash of panic momentarily flood over him.

“Shh…”  All he can think to say, fingers carding through John’s hair, one arm wrapped tight around his waist, gentle kisses wherever he can reach.  But John doesn’t stop, and Sherlock doesn’t know if it is a good thing, or a very, very bad one.  John just doesn’t cry, and never like this.

“John…  It’s alright.  I’m here.  It’s alright…”  All the time knowing that perhaps it is his very presence which is making it very much ‘not’ alright.  He tries to pull him closer, to enfold him, draw him in, keep him safe.  He is too raw, to exposed, even under the blankets, even with Sherlock’s arms wrapped tight around him.

Sherlock shifts his weight, just a little, rolls them both onto their sides, and then over still more, until John is cocooned between the mattress and his body, until Sherlock can look down at him, read his face (or try to), assess him for hurt, or damage, or…

John turns his face away, trying to hide it in the folds of the pillow, and Sherlock thinks he understands.  _Too much_.  He dips his head down, presses into the crook of John’s neck, so he will be close, be touching, be breathing the same air, but won’t require eye-contact, or words, or all those things that fail one, when everything is too much.

John’s not fighting the tears.  His body is loose, shaking, wracked and wrung out with them.  And Sherlock waits with him, rests, and holds, and shelters, until the sobs come further apart, until they soften into sniffs, and the occasional hiccough.  Finally John quiets, his breathing becoming even again.  He shifts and moves a little.  His arms inch up from the mattress, wrap around Sherlock’s back, hold on tight, and he turns his head, just a little, kisses Sherlock’s cheek.

Sherlock turns to meet his eye.

“I’m alright,” John says immediately.  And he is.  His voice is steady, and calm.  And he’s not apologising for his tears.  That is something new.

“I’m glad.”

John reaches up, presses a finger between Sherlock’s brow, rubs at the deep furrow there.  “You’re worrying.  Don’t worry.  I’m alright.  This wasn’t something you did.”

“Sure?”

“Yeah.”

“I love you, John,” because he needs him to know.

“I love you, too.  More than anything.  More than anyone.”

John nuzzles at Sherlock’s nose, nudges it out, and up, so he can reach his lips, and when John kisses him, Sherlock knows it’s alright.  Something has changed there too.  It’s lazy, a little sloppy, completely at ease.  When John pulls away he smiles at him, soft, and open, in a way that Sherlock has only ever previously seen when John was drunk, or high.  “That was fantastic—just so you know.”

Sherlock smiles back.  “Was it?”

“Definitely.”

“Well, good.”

John kisses him again.  

They won’t talk about this.  John may mention it in one of his letters tomorrow, but there won’t be a conversation.  There doesn’t need to be.  Whatever happened between them tonight needed to happen, and it’s alright now.  Everything’s better, and that’s enough.


	5. Appendix ? - Chapter 154

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Appendices to my epistolary fic "Letters from Sussex".
> 
> These appendices correspond to certain chapters in my epistolary fic, "Letters from Sussex" (LfS). The LfS Chapter will be referred to in the appendix title, and a link to the corresponding LfS chapter will also be provided in the beginning author notes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place after [Chapter 154](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4147626/chapters/12985648) of Letters from Sussex.

“You could have died…”Sherlock’s lashes are damp, and John’s skin is warm against his lips, as he whispers them over John’s chest—soft, chaste kisses, just to ground them both, to assure one another that they are here, alive, staying. 

John’s fingers card through Sherlock’s hair.  “But I didn’t.”

“But you could have.”

“Yes I could have,” John concedes, voice hushed.  “I could have, you’re right.  It was a stupid thing to do.  I’m sorry, Sherlock.”

“You could have died,” all Sherlock can say in response.  “You could have, you nearly did.  I—I watched you fall, and I couldn’t—I couldn’t stop it.”

“I know.  It’s terrible.  I know.  I’m sorry.”

( _It’s terrible.  I know._ )  Sherlock’s mouth goes dry at the realisation.  John knows.  John knows because he’s lived it.  And for John it didn’t end with an ankle brace and an admonition.  For John it ended in over two years of crushing loneliness and grief.  A lie that had seemed so necessary, so harmless, had nearly been the breaking of him.

“I’m sorry…” Sherlock breathes, fresh tears biting at the corners of his eyes, spilling over, unchecked.  “John, I’m sorry.  I’m sorry…”

John’s hand stills in his hair.  “Hey…?”

Sherlock slides up and buries his face in John’s neck, drowns in the tangy, musky, living smell of him, breaths deep, smears John’s flesh with his remorse.

“Hey—Sherlock?  What’s wrong?  I’m okay, Love.  I’m okay.”

( _Love_ )  Always love, when he least deserves it.

“I fell.  I fell once, and you weren’t.  You weren’t alright, John.”

John goes silent and still, and Sherlock is afraid to look, to see what he might see written over his features in this moment.  He shouldn’t have brought it up.  John hates this topic.  It still stings, and aches, and Sherlock thinks he understands a little better now, but still he’s said it, and he shouldn’t have, and everything’s gone from bad to worse.

“You’re right.  I wasn’t.  But that’s done now.  Done.  You understand?”

Sherlock can’t bear to look. 

“Look at me, please.”

And so Sherlock does, and there is a softness in John’s eyes he does not expect.

“That’s done.  Let’s leave it in the past—where it belongs.  You and I, we aren’t getting any younger.  We probably have fewer days ahead than lie behind us, and of all those years, we’ve known one another for so few.  Why waste the time we have with regrets, with old, tired resentments?  I’d rather spend them loving you.”  John smiles, and reaches down to card his fingers through Sherlock’s short curls.  “And making love to you…”

Sherlock smiles, in spite of himself.  It must be the smile John loves, because his face softens even more, and then he is leaning down, claiming Sherlock’s mouth, tenderly, slowly, drawing out the kiss, until Sherlock is dizzy and tingling all over with it.  “I have the perfect cure for all this nonsense,” John murmurs between the gentle brush of lips, over cheek, and throat, and jaw.  “No more roofs for either of us…”

“Mmm…  Brilliant prescription, doctor.”

John chuckles against his neck.  “Brilliant, am I?”

“Mm.”

“I’m going to remind you, you said that.”

“You know you are, John.  Say you do.”

“True, but it’s still nice to hear you say it.”

“Then I’ll be sure to say it more often.”

“I’ll remind you of that, too.”

And then they are tangled together, hands sneaking beneath the hem of t-shirts, pulling them off, and feet sliding over the curve of calves, and mouths everywhere, breath hot, and moist and delicious over heated skin.

They’ve come so far.  Sherlock hadn’t realised how far until this very moment.  They acknowledge their mistakes, they communicate, they forgive one another, and let this love between them wash away the scurf of all their wrongs.  There is that wedding in just a few short weeks, but they are married already, and if not for the fact that they have it all planned, and there are people who are wanting to share in that moment, he would love nothing more to take John into Eastbourne this very minute, and exchange their vows. 

It seems important somehow, that last link, that public affirmation that their love is the sort that is meant to last.He wants to tell the world that he cannot live without John, that a life without John Watson in it, is a horrible, empty thing, not worth the living.He wants to tell the world, and in the same breath, he doesn’t.He wants to keep the beautiful secret of this love between them. 

There is nothing hurried.  Sherlock needs to take a care for John’s ankle, and he craves the slow, languorous pace tonight.  “I love you…”  Whispered just behind John’s ear.

“I love you, too,” whispered back into the curls at Sherlock’s temple.

And then John’s tongue and teeth are working at the sensitive spot on his neck, the one that always turns him to jelly, and leaves him whining and begging for more.  And he responds so beautifully, and John is praising him, just as he likes…

“Christ, Sherlock, you’re so…”

John’s hands, small, and warm and dry, slide over his ribs, thumbs ghosting over his nipples, arms wrapping around him, pulling him in close, fingers weaving in curls, and Sherlock feels all the delicious tension that had been building between them, just let go.  There should be some disappointment in that, but there isn’t.  It’s peace.  It’s blissful quiet. It’s John tucking Sherlock’s head under his chin, soothing trails against his scalp with the pads of his fingers.  It’s his breath catching a little before he presses his lips to the top of Sherlock’s head.  It’s knowing, just knowing that they belong here, together now, like this.

John’s cock is hard and throbbing against Sherlock’s abdomen.  With their height differences and Sherlock’s face pressed into John’s neck, his cock sits neatly just above Sherlock’s naval, in the hollow of his costal arch.  It’s different.  It feels vulnerable and lovely somehow, and John seems in no hurry.  He just holds, and holds him, breathing into his hair, his arms holding tight, as though he fears Sherlock may disappear at any moment.  Every so once in a while he cants his hips a little, dragging his cock against Sherlock’s skin, keeping his arousal low, and simmering.

It was the falling.  Sherlock should not have mentioned it.  He knows this.  But John has said he wants to forget.  To leave it in the past.  And if this is helping, if this is what he needs, then Sherlock is more than happy to oblige.  He presses his lips to John’s chest, nuzzles against him.  He wants to say he’s sorry again, but there’s no point.  He’s said it so many times, and John is right.  It’s done.  There is no use in continuously dragging it out to examine it again.  He has vowed to be more careful, to not leave John out of things, and after everything with Culverton Smith, it’s a vow he knows he won’t break again.

John is stroking lazy trails up and down his back, and Sherlock is starting to drift, teetering on that heady brink between sleeping and awake.  His limbs feel heavy, weighted.  He head is deliciously empty, but still lucid. 

John rolls away, and Sherlock murmurs in protest.  Then he is back again, just as quickly.  “Shh…  I’m here.”  And Sherlock relaxes again.

John pushes down a little until he is able to press his lips to the cup of Sherlock’s throat, to pepper kisses over his clavicle, to kiss ever so carefully and tenderly, the small pink circle of a scar left by Mary’s bullet all those months ago.  “I love you…” John whispers against his skin.  “I’ve always loved you, from the start, and you are the purest, most beautiful, most perfect thing I’ve ever been gifted with in my life, Sherlock.  Things like you don’t happen to people like me…”

Sherlock thinks he should say something, but everything he can think of seems woefully inadequate.  He weaves his fingers through John’s hair instead, pets, and soothes, and he feels the relaxed exhalation John breathes against his chest as he pulls Sherlock closer, strokes his back again, let’s his hands wander lower, ghosts the back of his fingers over his arse.  Sherlock’s breath catches, and then lets go again in a heated sigh.

“So gorgeous…”

“John, please…”  And Sherlock doesn’t even know what he’s asking for, not really, just that John isn’t close enough, not by half, and he needs him, needs him like he needs oxygen, needs more of him, all of him.

“Tell me,” John urges.  “What is it.  What do you want?  You know I love it when you tell me.”

Sherlock huffs in frustration. He doesn’t have the words, not when he’s like this, strung tight, vibrating with anticipation, but loose, and pliant, and yielding all at once.

“Mmm…”  John hums against his chest.  “I’s alright.  You’re beautiful, Sherlock.  So…  You just tell me if you don’t like something, alright.”

Sherlock nods at that, and John starts to kiss his neck, his shoulder, his chest again, to whisper encouragements, and praise against his flesh: “So good.  Perfect.  Yeah, you like that?  You’re so good, Sherlock.  Always so good…”  until Sherlock is trembling, whimpering slightly, so desperate for more, and more, and not knowing how or what.

“Roll over, Love.  Can you do that for me?  Onto your other side.”

An order, something he can do, and Sherlock does without hesitation, and is instantly rewarded by the press of John’s body against his back, the feeling of John’s cock, slotting perfectly into the crease of his arse, and a low, guttural moan from John’s throat that makes Sherlock’s own cock twitch against his belly in sympathetic arousal.

“Oh god, Sherlock.  Christ, I want you.  I want…”  John thrusts against him, and moans again, and Sherlock’s skin tingles and sings with want.  And then John’s hand is there, slick somehow, reaching between them, fingers sliding easily between the cleft of Sherlock’s arse, and oh—oh…

“John, I’m not…  I didn’t know we were…”

“I don’t mind, Love.  If you don’t”

Sherlock can only shake his head. He wants to be self conscious.  He would have liked to have been better prepared for this moment, but everything is so sweet, and slow, and his arousal is banked so high he can barely speak.  He doesn’t care, he realises.  If John doesn’t then he doesn’t, can’t, oh…

One of John’s small fingers is pressed against his entrance now, and John is thrusting gently against the back of his own hand, causing his finger to move again, and again, until Sherlock’s body relaxes, takes him in, and Sherlock gasps and then moans with relief.

“You okay,” John whispers against the nape of his neck.

Sherlock nods.

“Okay.  Good.  That’s good.  You’re so…”  But John’s voice is cut off with a tiny grunt of pleasure as Sherlock’s cock throbs, and his internal muscles tighten around John’s finger.  “Touch yourself,” John whispers.  “Go on…  But not too much, okay.  I just want to feel you do that again.”

Sherlock instantly takes his cock in hand, and whimpers at the sudden surge of pleasure.  Almost too much.  He can’t.  He can’t move.  Just the pressure and warmth of his own hand is enough, and he’s trembling now, with the effort, and John swears so prettily against his skin as the tension of that building arousal floods Sherlock’s body and pulls John’s finger in more deeply.

“Fuck…  Oh god.  Oh Sherlock, do you think you could…”  John’s thrusting is losing some of it’s control and care.  He’s unravelling too, and it’s beautiful, perfect.  “Could you take another?”

“Please…”

And that’s all John needs to hear.  He adds a second finger and Sherlock takes him so easily, that he adds a third.  It’s strange then—full, and tight, with a slight burn around the edges, but Sherlock’s head is a cloud of arousal, and the slight discomfort seems to only bank his desire.  John has grown still.  “It’s a lot.  You still okay?”

Sherlock nods.

“You want me to be still for a minute?”

Sherlock nods again.

“Okay, Love.”  Lips against his shoulder.  “Touch yourself, okay.  If you can.”

And Sherlock does, because he can’t refuse, and it’s good, it’s perfect.  Somehow John always knows.  The pleasure spikes hot, and desperate, and he almost thinks he might come from it.  He feels John gasp as he tightens around him, and John moves then, a slow slide of fingers, out and then back in again, letting Sherlock’s own body dictate the pace.

Sherlock cries out at the unexpected surge of pleasure, and John stills.  “Don’t.  Don’t stop.  Please, John.  Don’t stop.”

And John doesn’t.  He slides in and out, setting up a rhythm that has Sherlock squirming, and mumbling and thrusting franticly into his own fist, all the while fighting his release, fighting so hard, because it feels different this time.  It feels like if he is very, very good, John just might want to…

“I want to be inside you, Sherlock.  Can I?  Is it okay?”  panted hot between Sherlock’s shoulder blades. 

“Yes.”

John’s fingers slip out of him, and Sherlock feels the corners of his eyes bite at the loss.  There is a slight rustling behind him, a bit of desperate fumbling, and then John’s body is there again, warm and slick against his back, and his cock is sliding easily between Sherlock’s cleft, and there is a pressure, hot, and firm and insistent.  “You sure,” John chokes out in a whisper.  His voice ragged with arousal, and sounding suspiciously close to tears.

“Oh god, yes.  Please, John.”

“Okay.  Stroke yourself, Love, okay.  I’m a mess.  Just stroke yourself for me.  I want you to take me in when you’re ready.”

He can feel John’s hand on his hip, thumb stroking soothingly through the thin cotton of the sheet, and the pressure of John’s cock against his entrance, and the heat of John’s breath against his spine.  He strokes, just like John ordered, smearing the beads of precome over the head, down the shaft.  He is slick with sweat, and trembling so much he wonders if he’s getting ready to black out.  Wouldn’t that be a disappointment. 

The pleasure is so intense, he cries out a little, and has to fight hard not to come.

“Shhh…  Not yet, Sherlock.  Be good.  Not yet.”

John presses against his entrance a little harder, and Sherlock increases the pressure of his fist around his cock, gives a long pull, and…

“Oh fuck!”  John slides in, just a little, but enough for Sherlock to feel the fullness, the burn of it, to feel John start to tremble behind him, in a desperate bid to hold back.  “Oh god, Love.  Don’t move, okay.  Don’t…”  John is panting, shallow and desperate against his back.  The fingers at Sherlock’s hip, that had been soothing only a moment ago are now digging in desperately.

It feels so good, but it’s not enough.  Not nearly, and Sherlock can’t help but give his cock another firm stroke, and then another, until he feels himself pull John deeper, and John lets out the most delicious, and almost guttural moan.  “Fu…  Oh god, Oh Sherlock.  Christ!  I’ve got to move, I have to, Love.   Please I…”

Sherlock pushes back against him in invitation, and John grabs his hip so hard, Sherlock knows it will leave a beautiful string of bruises, and then pushes all the way in.  It is the oddest and most perfect sensation, to be fully filled by John in this way, to feel him throbbing and twitching inside, to feel John’s pulse inside his body.  It’s beautiful in some strange, filthy, visceral way. 

John is pulling Sherlock back tight against his pelvis, shaking apart, his hips moving, in small, shallow thrusts, as he grunts, and moans, and grows more desperate.  Sherlock knows he is going to come soon.  He’s learned John’s body well enough by now to know that, and he’s eager to feel it, to feel John spill into his body with a shout and a cry. 

He resumes stroking his own cock.  John loves that, he loves the feeling of Sherlock’s muscles twitching and tightening, trying to pull him deeper, and deeper, but he can’t get any deeper, and Sherlock can feel the tension building in his centre, he knows he’s almost there.  He thinks he should warn John.  He wants to.  But he wants, also, to hear the sounds of surprise and pleasure John makes the moment Sherlock’s orgasm pulses and pulls against him.  Sherlock wants to see if John might come from that, if they might come almost together.

John’s thrusts are becoming more bold, not so shallow anymore, but slightly erratic, too. He’s whimpering as he pants, a little wild, unravelling, wholly beautiful. 

Sherlock reaches down cups his balls, gives a gentle squeeze.  They’re full, and tight, and he feels them pull up on the contact.  John barks out a small shout of surprise behind him, as Sherlock squeezes tight around his cock, and his thrusts speed up.  His pants turning into something close to sobs.  It’s the best thing Sherlock has ever heard, and he’s so close himself.  It won’t take much.  He takes himself back in hand, and begins to stroke in time with John’s thrusts.  Stops trying to fight the pleasure that has been desperate to break over him from the moment John entered his body.  He’s pulling up tight as a bow string, a wave ready to break, and John is keening behind him, desperate, trying so hard to hold on.  Time to let go.

The pleasure that rips through Sherlock’s body is the most intense he has ever felt, the duel sensations of his cock throbbing out his release in thick ribbons over his body, and the sheets, the muscles inside him, clenching so hard around John’s cock he wonders if it might almost be painful, but John just shouts, franticly drives into him twice more, and then tenses all over and sobs out his release, spills inside.  Sherlock feels everything, every small detail, the warmth of semen, and tears, and sweat, and the slight pain of john’s teeth digging into his shoulder, and John’s nails digging into his hip.  He feels John shaking, almost violently for a moment, and then suddenly going absolutely boneless behind him.

Sherlock pulls away, let’s John slide from his body, tries to ignore the wetness, the mess that comes with it, rolls over and pulls John into his arms.  Because, he needs him to know.  He needs him to know how perfect this was, how perfect he is, and John has never been like this before, afterwards.  Limp, unresponsive, so quiet.

“I love you…”  Sherlock whispers into his hair.  “You love me so well, you…  You’re perfect, John—perfect.”

John huffs against his chest, and Sherlock kisses the top of his head.  Another puff of air, and then another, and then John’s arms wrapping tight around him, crushing, fierce, and John is crying, Sherlock suddenly realises.

Sherlock doesn’t know what it means, or what to do, so he does the only thing he knows to do, and that is to hold on tight, himself, to make sure John knows he’s there, that he’s not letting go, not ever, not for anything.

“It was perfect…”  Because it was.  “You were perfect.”  Because hasn’t John always been.

But, John’s arms just tighten around him, and so Sherlock stops talking altogether.  They lay a long time like that, John’s tears come and go.  There is a wind kicking up outside, and Sherlock can hear the door to the tool shed knocking.  No doubt John forgot to properly latch it again.  Rain is coming.

“I’m sorry…” John whispers against his chest.  “I didn’t mean for this to…  I don’t know what this is.  I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright.”

John pulls back a little takes in the sight of them both, the mess pressed between them, and staining the sheets beneath.  “We’re a mess.  I’ve made an utter mess of you.”

Sherlock can’t help the smile the quirks at the corner of his mouth.  “I told you I wasn’t prepared.  And I’m not complaining if you’re not, but we can’t sleep on these sheets.”

John wrinkles his nose a little.  “No.  We definitely can’t.  I should have used a condom, probably.”  His eyes lift again to meet Sherlock’s. They are red-rimmed, lashes damp, and clumped together. 

Sherlock smiles his fondest smile.  “Bath?”

The tiny furrow between John’s brow smoothes out a little.  “Yeah.  That—that’d be nice.”

“I’ll run it.  I should—visit the loo anyway.”

John nods.  “I’ll take care of the sheets.  They might be a lost cause.”  The furrow returns.

“John—we have more sheets.  I don’t care about the sheets.  That was the best—nothing’s ever been like that between us, before.  I didn’t know it could be like that.  I’ve wanted it so long, thought about it so often, and—and it was still so far beyond anything I could have imagined…”

“You’re okay, then?”

“Okay?!  John, I’m—I’m overwhelmed—in the best possible way!  And it’s you—it’s you who’ve done this, so…”  John’s eyes still look troubled, though Sherlock can’t see hints of relief there too.  “Are _you_ alright?”

“I didn’t know either…  I didn’t know, Sherlock.  Sex has never been like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like—like you were a part of me.  Like our hearts beat together.  Like everything faded, and there was only us.”

“Like we were inseparably connected in some profound way?”

John nods.  “Yeah.  I could feel everything you felt, almost thought for a bit I could hear your thoughts—like they were mine.  It was like we were sort of one person for a moment.  It was—it was weird.”  He chuckles.  “Weird, and amazing!  But weird, none-the-less.  Do you know what I mean?”

“Yes, John.  I know what you mean.”  Sherlock smiles.  “So—you would do it again?”

“God yes!  If you want to.”

“I definitely want to, yes.”

“Well—good.”

“Good.”

“Bath then?”

“Yes.”  Sherlock sits up and squirms a little.  “These sheets are definitely going to need to be binned.

John laughs then, and it’s bright, and open, all the anxiety from before swiftly retreating like morning fog in the sunshine.  “Nice…”

“It’s not, really.”

“Up with you, then.  I have to put my ankle brace on, and then I’m going to take care of these sheets.  Can you toss me a warm, wet flannel from the loo, though?  I should clean up a little.”

Sherlock stands, waits, sighs.  “Definitely wear a condom next time.”

John laughs again.  “Sorry.”

Sherlock chuckles.  “It’s fine.  Just—messy.”

He retreats to the loo, tosses John the flannel, and then does his best to clean himself up a little before running the tub.  He adds some epsom salts.  John’s sprained ankle will be sore with the cold weather coming in, and he’s growing a little stiff and achy himself.

The salts are something of John’s, lightly scented, and refreshing—lemongrass and basil.  It smells like John—instantly like John—and Sherlock steps into the water, even as it’s still running, sinks down into the comforting warmth and sighs contentedly.  He washes, swiftly and efficiently, and is just rinsing off his hair when he hears the water shut off in the kitchen, and John’s halting tread as he returns.

“I binned the sheets, but I’m washing the mattress pad.  It’s going to have to soak over night, and I…”  John stops short at the sight of Sherlock laid out naked, hair dripping, pale skin slightly pink beneath the surface of the water.  “Jesus…  You are just gorgeous, do you know that?”

“This bath smells like you, and it’s torture not having you in it.  Stop ogling me, and get in here.”

John huffs out a laugh, and smiles crookedly, before sliding out of his ankle brace, dropping his robe, and dipping a toe into the water.

“Sit in front of me.  You took care of me, now I want to take care of you.”

“Mmm… Ta.”  And John sinks down gratefully between Sherlock’s legs, lets Sherlock surround him, pull him in tight against his chest and just breathe in his scent–salty, and musky, with just a hint of sex still clinging on around the edges.  “This is nice.  Brilliant idea.”

“Necessity more like.”

John smiles, eyes shut.

“I love you…”

John’s eyes open again.  He tilts his chin up, smiles.  “I love you, too, and I meant what I said before.  This was—it wasn’t what I thought it would be.  It was special, okay.  It meant a lot to me.”

“Did it?”

“Yeah.  Something was different this time.  I don’t know what, just—it was different.  In a good way.  I didn’t…  Something broke.  Something that needed to break…  Jesus, this doesn’t make much sense, does it.”

“It does.  It makes sense to me, John.”

John searches his face for a moment, and then nods, smiles—soft, almost shy—and leans back against Sherlock’s chest again.  He sighs when Sherlock starts to smooth his hands over the contours of his body beneath the water.  The sort of soothing strokes one would use to lull someone to sleep, to ease out the tension, nothing too heated, only nurture, care.

John doesn’t seem to get enough of this, Sherlock has been realising.  He is rather touch starved.  And the sex is wonderful, fantastic, mind-blowing even, but sometimes this is just as nice, just as necessary—this quiet sort of tenderness.  Sherlock makes a mental note to be better about this.  To touch John in little ways through out the day, as long as he will permit it.

Taking up the sponge on the side of the tub, and applying a little of his own shower gel, he starts to wash.  It seems important, this.  He wants to mark John the way John has marked him, needs John to smell like him when they get out of the bath, and slip back beneath the sheets together.

John makes no comment, just accepts the attention with an openness and vulnerability that makes Sherlock’s chest squeeze with adoration. 

They don’t need words.  Sherlock guides John with his touch, and John goes, willingly, let’s Sherlock wash his back, his arse, his cock, every inch of him.  Let’s him wash his hair, rinse, pull him back against his body again, and press kisses to the crown of his head as he wraps his arms and legs around him.

The water is cooling now, and the house is cold.  It wouldn’t do to let John catch a chill.  “I want to start a fire and make up the bed before you get out.  It’s cold, and your ankle…”

“You don’t have to,” John murmurs, half asleep against him.

“I want to.  You stay here.  Won’t be but a moment.”

Flannel sheets—warm and soft.  The fire catches easily, and blazes quickly with the nice dry wood John brought in from the shed a couple of days prior.

When Sherlock returns to the bath, John is dozing, mouth lax, a slight pink flush over his cheeks.

“John…”

John’s eyes slide blearily open, and he smiles softly.  “Hello.”

Sherlock smiles back.  “You can’t sleep in the tub.  Come to bed.  Come on.”

He helps John to his feet, lets him hold onto the towel rack for balance while his dries him off.  John would normally never permit this.  He would crack some joke, and brush him off, and do for himself.  But, he’s permitting it now, whether from exhaustion, or the last lingering vestiges of oxytocin still travelling through his veins, or due to what he’d mentioned before—something broke, something that needed to—Sherlock doesn’t know.  But, he takes advantage of it.

He let’s John lean on him for support as he hobbles back to the bedroom.  Tucks him in, tight and safe.  Brings his support brace from the loo and sets it beside his bed for the morning, and then shuts off the lamp and crawls beneath the covers with him.

John immediately gravitates toward him, all warm, and smelling of lemon grass and basil, sandalwood and vetiver, smelling like the two of them melded together into one.  He tangles their limbs together, presses his face against Sherlock’s chest, and falls instantly, and deeply asleep.

Sherlock lays a long time in the dark, after that, listening to the even cadence of John’s breathing, the winter rain as it begins to pelt against the bedroom windows, the crackling of the fire.  He wonders what tomorrow might bring.  This felt significant somehow.  Why it should, he doesn’t know, but it did.  He is different.  John is different.  At least here, now, tonight, in the afterglow of all they have just shared. 

Will it survive the night?  Will it last?

He hopes so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your patience, and for sticking with this story so long. I can't believe I haven't updated since January! 
> 
> I very much hope to start updating Letters from Sussex with a little more regularity now, but I'm kind of done making promises, as real life and work always seem to rise up and rather kick me in the arse. You have my word, I'll do my best to get this finished before the one year anniversary which is in June.


	6. Appendix ? - Chapter 157

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Appendices to my epistolary fic "Letters from Sussex".
> 
> These appendices correspond to certain chapters in my epistolary fic, "Letters from Sussex" (LfS). The LfS Chapter will be referred to in the appendix title, and a link to the corresponding LfS chapter will also be provided in the beginning author notes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place after [Chapter 157](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4147626/chapters/14889766) of Letters from Sussex.
> 
> Though I don't feel that it warrants an actual domestic abuse tag, as it never has been, nor do I have any intention of domestic abuse becoming the focus of this story. I do want to mention that there is an outburst of anger, and some throwing of crockery in this chapter. Neither the anger nor the crockery is directed at anyone. It is more a response to overwhelming frustration. But it still could be triggering to people who have been victims of domestic abuse, or who have had to live in a volatile and violent household.

“How was it?”

“It was good, yeah.”  Sincere, but tight, forced, uncomfortable.

It’s nearly killed John to sit and watch Sherlock prepare and serve dinner, and not lift a finger himself.  This is ridiculous, of course, because there have been plenty of times in the past, when John was grumpy, or depressed, or just out of sorts, where he didn’t lift a finger to help with the cooking, or washing up, or anything of the sort, for days on end.  But he forgets about those times, and today was different, because this wasn’t about John not feeling well enough to notice or be bothered.  Today was about Sherlock spoiling him, consciously and purposefully spoiling him, and John is clearly not dealing with it well.  But still—he smiles, he compliments the meal, which he sincerely seemed to enjoy (though he kept eyeing the bottle of white wine on the counter longingly, throughout), and he tries.

It’s been a trying day.  There was the putting away of the shopping when John got home from the village, and Sherlock’s insistence that John sit and entertain himself, while he prepared them a quick lunch, and then there was a film, and Sherlock snuggling close to John, wrapping a blanket ‘round them both on the couch, a small bowl of popcorn, the dog curled up at their feet.  Some slow, lazy kissing, that turned heated after awhile, and Sherlock had let John push him back against the sofa cushions and claim his mouth, mark him.  If he hadn’t, he feared John might break.   But he followed it up by running John a warm bath before dinner, leaving him to enjoy, coming back just in time to wash his back and hair, and then moved on to preparing dinner.

The general stiffness, and tension in John’s body, and at the corners of his mouth, twist in Sherlock’s heart like a knife.  It’s not hurt, he’s not personally hurt by John’s continuing discomfort with this.  He aches _for_ John—that this simple thing, accepting care and nurture from one’s best friend, lover, spouse, is still so terribly difficult for him.

John feels Sherlock’s love, and accepts it.  Sherlock knows this.  It’s so much more than what John could bear to let in in the beginning.  And that’s not just a little _something_ , that is huge, it’s monumental, and Sherlock has loved and appreciated every small gesture, every tiny inkling of John’s slow unfurling. 

John is so beautiful.  Strong, yes, but delicate too, like a spring flower.  Sherlock longs to gentle open each petal, to see if John might tremble softly and open to him in the way that he has opened to John so often. 

People are different, that’s true.  John may always prefer to take care of him, and it is a beautiful gift which Sherlock can still hardly believe, and which he accepts whole-heartedly and with endless gratitude, every single time.  And that would be fine.  It would.  It is.  But sometimes you need nurture, and Sherlock wants to be sure that John is comfortable asking and receiving in those rare times he does.

John is up, gathering plates, utensils, glasses, clearing the table…

“Sit, John.  Let me.”

John’s eyes screw shut, and his shoulders square, and he sniffs that little sniff that means he’s barely holding together.  “Sherlock…”  Through gritted teeth.  “Let me do this.  Let me at least do one bloody thing!  This is ridiculous!”

Sherlock sits back down.  “Suit yourself.”

John opens his eyes again, they’re hard, and hurting, and there is that tiny edge of danger there, that says to not push him anymore, and Sherlock knows John well enough to know to let it go.  John’s getting ready to break, and all Sherlock can do is sit back and wait.  It’s like watching a storm roll in.

Halfway to the sink, a glass slides off the stack of two plates John is holding and shatters against the tile.  There is a moment of stillness.  Sherlock holding his breath, the very air in the room prickling, and then it happens…

“Fuck!”  Silence as John stares down at the glass beneath his feet.  “FUCK!”  And then there are the rest of the dishes raised above his head, and thrown down against the floor so fiercely small pieces of crockery and glass skitter and hop across the kitchen like crickets.  Gladstone yelps and clatters for the bedroom.  Sherlock sits very still, and says nothing, works hard to calm his racing heart.

John stares down at the floor, trembling, left hand balled tight at his side, so tight his knuckles are whitening.  His breath is coming quick and fast.  When he finally looks up and over at Sherlock sitting, waiting for him expectantly, the look in his eyes brings unbidden tears to Sherlock’s.  John is horrified, terrified—of himself.  Sherlock’s full eyes and stricken look don’t help.

“I’m going,” John says, tone numb.

“Where?”

“Anywhere.”

“Please tell me.  You promised.”

A muscle in John’s jaw twitches.  He sniffs.  “The pub.”

And then he leaves.  He walks out without a coat into the cold winter night.  Sherlock hears the car engine start, and the vehicle pull out of the drive.

There’s nothing to do but clean up.  And so Sherlock occupies himself with that, being extra careful to find every tiny shard of glass and crockery.  There is still so much of the puppy in Gladstone.  He eats everything he finds on the floor, and it wouldn’t do for him to ingest that.  Once he is done, he goes in search of Gladstone himself.

He finds him by the bedroom hearth, huddled tight into the tiny space between the bookcase and the old coal scuttle they keep firewood in.  There is a slight furrow of worry between his anxious brown eyes as he lifts his chin from his paws, and wags his tail in small, hesitant taps against the floor.

“It’s alright.  It’s just hard for him.  Come here.”

The dog gets slowly to his feet and approaches hesitantly, small and nervous, and Sherlock pets him soothingly, and then scoops him up, and lets him up on the bed, and they curl up together, Gladstone tucked comfortingly against Sherlock’s chest and belly.

They drift.  When Sherlock wakes again, it is to the sound of a car pulling off the main road and into their drive.  The clock on John’s nightstand only reads 20:07.  It’s not even been an hour since John left.  The knock at the front door, though, is wholly unexpected.  Sherlock feels his heart plummet into his stomach.

By the time he reaches the front door, his hands are shaking, but he wrenches it open, anyway, preparing for the worst, and takes a small step back in shock when he finds John standing there with a bouquet of roses in his hand, instead.

“Why are you knocking?”  All that comes out of Sherlock’s mouth.

“Because I don’t deserve to presume I’m welcome.”

Sherlock’s lips part in shock.  It feels like someone’s sucked the oxygen out of his lungs.  “You live here.”

“Do I?  Still?”

“Sorry?”

John’s bottom lip trembles for the briefest of moments, before he sucks in a quick breath and squares his shoulders.  “I could have hurt you.  I could have hurt the dog.”

“They were dishes.”

“It was dangerous.  It was—it was unforgivable.”

Sherlock takes a step back, and motions for John to come in.  He shuts the door behind him.  “It was dangerous, yes.  But not unforgivable.”

The cellophane wrapped around the flowers in John’s hand crinkles, as his grip on them tightens.  “Don’t.  Don’t do that, okay.  You shouldn’t forgive this.”

“Maybe I want to.”

“I know you do, but you shouldn’t.”

“Don’t you think I should decide that for myself?”

“No.  No, because you love me, and you forgive me anything, and this wasn’t okay.”

“It wasn’t.  You’re right.  It wasn’t alright, and it shouldn’t ever happen again.  But you know that, and admit it, and I love you, and I forgive you.  You’re trying.”

John’s eyes darken.  “Don’t.”

“John, you walked away.  You didn’t hurt me.  You never would.”

“I went to the pub.”

“Yes.”

“The pub, Sherlock.”

“I know.”

“Why—why am I like this?!”

“It’s alright.”

“NO IT’S NOT!!  IT’S NOT ALRIGHT!!!”

Sherlock doesn’t say anything.  John’s face does a myriad of things at once, things Sherlock doesn’t understand.  He moves toward the door, hand on the handle, like he means to leave again, and that Sherlock cannot bear.

“Stay—please.”

John hesitates.  “I don’t know what to do.  There’s something wrong with me, Sherlock.”  Said to the wood of the door.  “There’s something so wrong with me.  There’s always been, and I don't know what it is.  I used to think I was crazy.  Maybe just inherently broken.  Why can’t I let you love me.  Why do I do this when you try?”  John slumps, forehead pressed against the door, roses crushed between his chest and the wood.

Sherlock aches to touch, but he doesn’t.  That’s not what John needs now.  Not yet, at least.

“Your not broken, John.  You’re human.  And you’ve had to bear more than any one person should have to bear.  And you think—you think you deserve it, because that’s what they taught you, from your earliest recollections, tucked up in the corner of some pew between your mother squirming for her freedom, and your father, rank with his hypocrisy.  They told you you were broken, that you came into the world soaked in the bile of original sin, and that only they, and their rules, your church’s, your father’s, your teachers’, the military’s could help you regain your worth.  They taught you that love was something you had to earn no matter how much they professed a doctrine of grace. 

“But, you’re just a man, John.  Your beautiful, and flawed, and perfect, and you try so hard, all the time, every day.  You are better than most, and I wish you saw that, I wish you believed it, but if you can’t yet, I understand.  Just know that _I_ know it’s true, and that’s not just the love talking, John, that’s fact. 

“You do deserve love.  You deserve love just as much as anyone.  My love isn’t something you have to earn.  It’s a gift, feely given, as is my forgiveness.  I love you.  I’ve loved you from the moment I laid eyes on you, and nothing is ever going to change that.  Do you understand?  Nothing.”

John doesn’t move.

“Stay, John.  Please.  I want you to stay.  It’s always better when you do.”

“Sometimes it’s better when people go, Sherlock.”

“But not you or me.  Not anymore.”

John pushes away from the door a little, stares down at the crushed flowers held against his chest.  “I’ve ruined them.”

“It’s fine.  It was lovely of you—thank you for them, anyway, John.  Thank you for buying me roses instead of going to the pub.”

“I hate myself.”

Sherlock can feel the tears biting at the corners of his eyes.  John is so diminished.  “I know you do.  But I love you.”

John shakes his head.  “I’ll ruin you, too.”

“No.  I’ve told you.  You’re healing me.  You look at me, and you see someone small, and weak, and scared beneath all my bravado.  You truly ‘see’ me, and you love me anyway.  That’s something I didn’t think I’d ever have.  You’ve not ruined me, John.  You’ve been the making of me.”

Finally John turns.  He pulls his hands away from the stems of the roses he’s had fiercely grasped in his hands.  “Oh.”

Sherlock looks down at the small red punctures in John’s palms, the little dots of blood blooming up, and he steps forward, takes the flowers from John’s hands, drops them to the floor, and lifts one of John’s small, trembling hands to his lips.  He kisses it.  He tastes the copper tang of John’s blood, and when he pulls away, John is trembling everywhere.

“John…”

“I…”

“Tell me what you need.”

“I—I don’t…”

And Sherlock waits, because John needs to say it for himself, and sometimes that can take him a very long time, but there is no rush.  They have the rest of their lives.

“You’ve…On your mouth…”John reaches up a single finger, wipes his own blood of Sherlock’s lips.Sherlock lets him.Watches every small nuance of John’s expression, body language, let’s all the love he feels rise unhindered, and hopes that John can see.He takes both of John’s hands in his small ones, and gently cradles them between their chests.

“We should take care of this.  Come to the bedroom.”

John shakes his head.

“You’re bleeding.”

“It’s nothing, Sherlock.”

“Please, John.  Let me.  It’s such a small thing, and you tend to my wounds all the time.”  Sherlock smiles.  “I’ll even let you tell me what to do.”

A small smile tugs, crooked at the edge of John’s mouth.  It fades again, on the back of a sigh.  “I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

“I just—I just get like this sometimes.”

“I know that, too.”

“And you want me anyway?”

Sherlock can feel his eyes filling again.  He doesn’t try to stop it.  “How could anyone not want you?” he smiles softly.

John’s inhales, a quavering breath, looks away momentarily, and swallows tightly, before stepping forward and into Sherlock’s arms.  “Hold me, okay.  Just—hold me.”

And Sherlock does, of course, arms wrapped tight, lips pressed to the top of John’s head.  He feels all the tension in John’s body, the way he is wound so tight that breaking is an inevitability.  It is only a matter of when, and how.  For John’s sake, Sherlock hopes it will be here, like this, and that it will be soft, this time—gentle, and slow, and easy.  John has had enough of cataclysmic events.


End file.
